


Life is Hard (and No One Understands)

by Twilit



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: AU, F/F, Fix-it Fix, Tragedy, and living with them, coffee shop AU, middle-aged characters, this is a story about hard choices, turn back here ye who do cannot countenance tears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilit/pseuds/Twilit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years after the events of Life is Strange, two women find each other again. Living has dragged them across the world, apart from one another and down almost pre-destined routes. But no matter how heavily the past weighs, the future is not yet written. This is not the coffee-shop AU you think it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seeing Ghosts

It is pouring, windy and her shoes are stupidly open-toed. On top of that, her phone is vibrating urgently in her purse, but she doesn’t dare take it out to check because she dropped it on the way out of her office and causing the damn thing to bloom with a hateful spiderweb of cracks. The umbrella she’d packed is stripped out over itself and jammed into a garbage bin two blocks back.

Victoria Chase is cold, miserable and pissed. Stalking down the streets of Portland, she looks like the murderbitch her employees whisper about behind her back and this particular day she feel ready to get her slaughter on for real. Instead, another set of vibrations causes her to snap in a completely different direction. She gives in, swerves into the nearest coffee shop and beelines for the tissues. Wiping her hands, she retrieves the phone, checks her messages and discovers that the urgent matter is one message from her assistant and half a dozen e-mails from Arcadia Bay, imploring her to donate to the Blackwell Academy Restoration fund. Twenty years later and they still haven’t fixed the damn place.

Her eye beginning to twitch Victoria takes a huge breath in, holds it for a count of ten and releases for another count. Then she drops her phone as if it were refuse into her purse and heads to the counter for something warm.

“Hey there, what can- Victoria?”

Her eyes snap down from the blackboard to the barrista’s face even as something old and forgotten tugs at her memories. She knows that voice.

“Max Caulfield.”

Victoria’s eye gives a single, spastic twitch.

* * *

Max’s surprise is quickly overcome with amusement as the blonde on the other side of the counter develops a twitch.

“Max Caulfield,” her old classmate says in a flat tone, “What the- what are you doing here?”

It’s obviously taking Victoria a lot of self control to maintain her composure, which, along with her sodden appearance, tips Max that her day has been less than pleasant. Which, of course, means it is only appropriate to turn up the sarcasm.

“Huh,” she says, putting her hands on her hips and looking around behind the counter, “you know, I was trying to figure that out myself, but I think I’ve got it.”

An arched eyebrow on a still-deadpan face. Max leans in conspiratorially,

“I think I’m a cappuccino machine mechanic.”

A smirk tugs violently at the corner of Victoria’s lips but is quickly quashed by a scowl of irritation. Seems Victoria doesn’t want to be pulled out of her mood.

“Well that’s lovely, I applaud your very-hands on career choice. Is there any chance with all that expertise you know how to make a latte?”

“Oh, I suppose I could bang something out.”

“That’s what she said!” a voice shrieks from a back room. Max winces at her co-worker’s delivery and smiles apologetically at Victoria.

“One latte, coming up.”  
There’s a small bar beside the counter and for lack of a burning desire to slog through an Oregon rainstorm, Victoria slides into a chair and gives Max a once-over. _She’s gotten taller. Unfair. But older too._ The crinkles at the corner of her eyes are spreading, and white hairs are clearly visible in her long, tousled brown hair. Beyond that, the woman looks unchanged from the girl. Jeans, t-shirt, overshirt traded out for an apron. The natural thought occurs to Victoria, and so she asks,

“So what’s someone with more awards than I have fingers and toes left doing making lattes- oh, sorry- fixing cappuccino machines in Portland?”

“Mmm, you think I’m going to skip over that piece of information because you’re playing along with my story, but I won’t, oh I won’t Victoria Chase. And I just wanted a break. Need to recharge my creative batteries.”

“Sure. So what happened? Saving families and shooting lives under fire get too boring?”

Max tenses imperceptibly and Victoria thinks she might have hit a nerve. Distantly, a bell of guilt echoes.

“Please. I did that all of, like, once.” The barrista puts the latte on the counter, scooping up change left as a tip.

“Enough to get you-”

“Remembered for a whole lot of shit I never wanted to be remembered for, Chase.”

Christ, she must really have riled her up. Victoria doesn’t ever remember Max calling anyone by their last name. Or talking so bluntly, on so short a fuse. Somewhere in the past twenty years, the girl became a woman and found a temper. Victoria goes to verbally poke at this new, different Max when,

“So that’s me, what are you still doing in Portland?”

A biting remark that she swears she got out in time gets swallowed by the sneer that plasters itself quite comfortably across Victoria’s face.

“ _Still?_ You say that as if being a successful art dealer in the heart of America’s creative scene is somehow beneath me.”

“I don’t know. Is it?”

The sneer transforms into a scowl and Victoria picks up the coffee. The new Caulfield is not to her taste. Not that the old one was much, either. So maybe the new Caulfield isn’t that new.

“Swing by one of the galleries sometime Max, see for yourself. Maybe you’ll recharge those batteries faster.”

She leaves, heedless of the rain.

* * *

Maxine Caulfield heaves a shuddering sigh as the tension bleeds out of her. That could have gone better. _”Hey Victoria, how are you doing after all these years?” “Oh not bad Max, it’s so nice to see you!” ...right._ Twenty years and they’re still sniping. What the hell, you think they could have grown up.

A trembling hand releases a milk jug and goes to press against her temple. That could really have gone better, but she isn’t going to push it. She really does need a break from, well, everything. Relaxing, de-stressing in Portland is looking like it is going to be harder than it looks.

As her co-worker comes out and rests a hand on her shoulder, Max watches a grey pixie-cut form disappear into the rain. Somewhere out there, there’s another universe where Victoria Chase ducked into a bar instead and Max was still behind the counter. She can feel it like she can feel the passing of time in her bones, the pressure of choices at the nape of her neck. At least in that universe, she might have had the chance to pour herself a drink.


	2. Impossible Facades

Victoria spends the next morning utterly regretting the way she went off on Caulfield. A large portion of that regret grows from the related problem of a bottle of wine on a virtually empty stomach. It is a wonder that she makes it to lunch. It is a miracle that she only bites the head off an artist’s agent over the phone. Her employees are conspicuously on the edges of the rooms as she storms out for food.

Well, food and reparations. The streets are rather different in the rain than in the sun and she walks into two cafes before finding the one Caulfield and her had their juvenile spat in. The one Caulfield works in. 

Victoria is a big believer in responsibility and owning your mistakes and she likes to think that’s gotten through to her employees, because as much as they fear her, they know to report when things have gone wrong and fix it rather than try to play the blame game. So it’s with that ethic that she enters Caulfield’s cafe with her head held high.

…only to find someone else behind the counter. Wonderful. Her eye gives a twitch and she very nearly turns on her heel, but her head hurts, she needs food and she will literally kill for a coffee. So up to the counter she goes, facing the tattooed girl.

“I don’t suppose Max is in today?” she asks, pre-empting the barrista’s greeting.

“Oh, uh, no. Oh! You’re that b- uh, woman from yesterday.”

“Smooth.” Victoria deadpans. “Well, I will have a latte in any case. Can I leave a message for her?”

“Well, if you’ve got time, you can tell her yourself. She comes in after lunch. Replaces me.”

Victoria thinks for a minute. She hasn’t got any meetings this afternoon, she’d rather do this in person and she’d really rather be able to go home at the end of the day and curl up with some disgustingly unhealthy comfort food than coming back down here. On the other hand, she’s not sure her head would survive a lunch rush.

“We have bacon cinnabuns…” the barrista says in a sing-song voice, causing Victoria to narrow her eyes.

“Fine. A latte, a cinnabun and whatever a “blood salad” is. There’s something resembling greens in there, yes?”

“Oh yeah. For sure.”

Victoria pounds back two advil with a latte, takes out a tablet and wonders what kind of cafe has 80s movie titles for passwords while waiting for her salad.

* * *

Max arrives early for her shift and is greeted by the vision of Victoria, head rested in her hands, hands bunched in her short hair, staring angrily down at a tablet. Her eyes cut to her co-worker who shrugs and nods her head in the blonde’s direction. Not sure what to expect, Max approaches the hunched over woman carefully. 

It’s just past noon and light is cutting down through the coloured glass of the corner Victoria has claimed as her own. A small circle has cleared around her, despite the business of the cafe and the scene is almost surreal in its construction. Not for the first time this break, Max wishes she were packing a better camera. 

Instead, she closes the distance, drawing her phone out. When Victoria still doesn’t look up, Max flips the phone landscape, focuses her shot and takes it.

The shutter sound snaps the blonde out of her concentration and focuses her gaze on Max. The photographer would call it laser-sharp, but the bags under her eyes and the wavering belies that. Still, it’s intense and gives the smaller woman a certain presence as she stands.

“Max. Good. Well, not the public-photographs-without-my-permission part, but the oh-look-you’re-here part.”

“Really? Victoria Chase, happy to see me? After yesterday?”

“I know, will wonders never cease. And it is regarding yesterday that I’m here… about. For?”

“Victoria…” Max says slowly, “Are you drunk?”

“I _wish_ ,” breathes the other woman. “No, just hungover and on my nth cup of caffeine for the day. Or not, since I asked Jenny to switch me to decaf several parts of this proposal ago.”

She gestures irritably at the tablet. “ _Anyways_ , I was a bitch yesterday for no good reason other than juvenile needling and I’m sorry.”

Max is almost taken aback, before she remembers that Victoria has always been a good person somewhere under her chill, elitist facade. Strange, how first impressions stick with you, even through decades of wear.

“Yeah, I’m sorry too,” Max replies, “We were both doing more than our fair share of poking.”

Victoria sits, holding a hand out in a gesture for Max to join her, eyebrow raised. A quick glance at her phone and Max sits, time left before her shift starts. Not like prep is anything more than washing her hands and putting on an apron.

“I did want to offer you a chance to see the galleries though. As a real ‘Welcome to Portland.’ Or welcome back, as it were. A pass to any and all special events at my galleries.”

“Well… so long as you’re not trying to use me as an attraction,” Max softens the accusation with a smile and it gratified by Victoria’s lips quirking. 

“I swear not to tell a soul. I can’t promise that word won’t get out once you’ve arrived though. Social media paparazzi and all.”

“Mm, perhaps I’ll swing by when there isn’t an event instead.”

The woman across from her shrugged. “Suit yourself. Unlike others, they’re open to the public, noon to eight, Monday to Friday.”

“Unlike others?”

“Yes. My competitors have to cultivate a certain appearance of quality and exclusivity.” Victoria’s voice drips with snobbery and scorn as she delights in what she clearly believes is a superior position.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to see for myself,” Max murmurs.

“What was that?” Victoria asks, leaning in. Her bangs brush her forehead as the sun comes out from behind a cloud and catches them, just so. Something like a half-halo blooms around her head, afternoon light tracing the curve of her head. Max’s mouth goes dry and she reaches for a camera, her phone, Victoria’s cheek, anything. Another moment that may as well be an eternity, another moment that sears itself into her memory and her soul sings that it is this beautiful, thank God. Her hand doesn’t get halfway off her lap before she remembers herself though. She stops, blushing fiercely and Victoria frowns.

“I said I’ll be sure to see them first,” she covers, poorly. “So they don’t feel lacking after yours.”

“Flattery,” her opposite says, leaning back. Now that her interest has caught, Max notices more. Too much more. The sheer fabric of an overly starched blouse, beautifully manicured nails, skin so pale as to be compared to moonlight.

“Well. Only the best for my closest rival,” she manages.

It’s the fire that lights behind Victoria’s eyes, the quickening breath that finally does her in. Max excuses herself, citing a need to get ready for her shift, and flees. She doesn’t feel Victoria’s eyes on her back, she swears.

* * *

Victoria leaves the cafe in something like a religious daze. She’d okayed the proposal on the tablet absently, suddenly not caring about her employees daring (poorly considered) plans for a new exhibit. Let them make their own mistakes. Now she walks home, simultaneously shaken and _alive_.

For the past… ever, she’d been the best. Ever since she’d left Arcadia Bay, she’d excelled. Challenges were sought out and overcome, relationships left by the wayside as she _achieved, accomplished_ , did everything she set out to do and more. Coming into her middle years, she’d thought she’d found contentment, if not happiness. 

And now this.

 _Rival_.

And the offhanded way Max Caulfield had dropped it! Victoria would be infuriated by the implied inferiority if she wasn’t shocked by the thrill that shot down her spine like cold lightning. Even now, just remembering Max’s otherworldly gaze as she voiced her compliment started her heart up, got her breaths coming in shorter gasps.

This wasn’t a challenge, an obstacle to be overcome. 

Before she knows it, Victoria finds herself walking up the steps to her condo. She doesn’t return the usual greetings of the concierge. The elevator doors close and open to her suite without even registering to her jittering, energized mind. When she comes to, she’s holding an old camera, a graduation gift from parents now buried. 

Her collection stands opened before her, meticulously maintained. No dust collected, no memories to associate with the things. A hundred cameras. More cameras in one place than pictures she’s taken in years. A flick of her thumb powers it on. She raises the viewfinder to her eye, snaps a shot of the glass cabinets. 

The picture resolves in its miniature LED glory and Victoria knows it’s crap immediately. A suppressed urge to hurl the camera later and she flips the thing, pointing it at her face. A selfie stares back her when the looks at the screen again and she recognizes herself, until she reaches her eyes.

No cold, flinty things these, bemoaned by lovers and remarked upon by magazines. Oh no. Those eyes belong to someone else now. Victoria feels incredibly _present_ now, and her eyes watch her as if alive. At least they’re questioning, not challenging.

She moves to find her purse, her phone. 

“Yes, Ally? I’m taking the next few days off. No, nothing’s wrong. I trust that you all have things under control. Yes. Yes, that’s what I just said. No, I’m going to be working on… a different exhibit. Yes, thank you. Oh, and you might have a… surprise celebrity guest stop by. Do be sure not to make a big deal of it. Max Caulfield. Yes, that- do you not understand what I mean when I say ‘a big deal?’ Thank you, Ally. I’ll check in from time to time but I’m sure you and the staff will be ready for the big night.”

A sharp clack of her thumbnail against cracked glass ends the conversation with her assistant. Victoria’s still looking at herself in the LED screen, feeling like she’s on the cusp of _something_. When her gaze comes up, the open door of the glass cabinet is splitting her reflection in two.

And then the camera is coming up, shutter going at max speed as she shifts from left to right, up and down, aligning images through a viewfinder for the first time in a forever. She tosses her purse and phone aside, placing the camera on the stone counter as she rushes to storage boxes hidden under couches. She knows there’s an old USB cable in there somewhere, just like she knows there’s a picture in that camera. A picture of a changed face, an answer to a question she’d never been asked.

A challenge, issued off-hand by someone whose regard was apparently a lot more important to her than she’d previously thought.

* * *

Max shuts down Jenny’s probing questions pretty quick and then proceeds to shut down her mind as a late lunch crowd rushes in. It’s her turn in the back, which is probably for the best, because she’s not sure she’s fit company for the public right now. Which is fine. Simple, mindless work was what she’d come here for, and she’s pretty sure she got this job on the basis of her eagerness to do dishes and other grunt jobs in the kitchen. 

But even her empty, wandering mind eventually finds its way back to her and when it does, she wants to take it all back, never sit down with Victoria and just come back here. She wanted a break from the attention, the expectation, what is she doing thinking about going to art galleries in _Portland_. Art galleries run by _Victoria Chase_ who she is now apparently crushing on like she’s fucking eighteen again.

 _You’re thinking you want to see Tori Chase in a little black dress-_ a voice at the back of her head whispers and she barks a sharp laugh at the ridiculousness of it. She knows, clinically, that this is just part of the escapism. The fantasy, the silly made-up pet names. She should indulge, right up to the point where she thinks about making it reality.

She’s really trying to make this chill, silly, carefree person real and some days she thinks she’s getting it down pretty well. She thinks it’d be fun to dress up and maybe, oh hell, flirt with Victoria. But then she’ll be somewhere she’s known, and people will ask _questions_.

_How did you get that shot where..._

_Oh those pieces about the families in the Ukraine…_

_How does it feel being, like, basically, the Lara Croft of photography?_

and her all-time-favorite

_Does it bother you when people call you an adrenaline junkie?_

She stopped going to her own exhibitions when it became clear that people were not interested in the soulful, slice of life work that she was most proud of. When the vast majority of your awards are for capturing tragedy, no one wants Max Caulfield’s “Dog Waiting Still by the Corn Maze.”

No one wants Max Caulfield.

Her heart catches in her throat and a glass shatters, doesn’t in her grasp, the shredding lattice of silicate bursting into spider-woven glory before abruptly snapping firm again, whole again. She is so, so glad she is back here. 

“Hey, uh, Max?”

Her head comes up, and she gives Jenny a wan smile. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Lunch rush is over, you, uh, need a break?”

Max almost says no, then scolds herself. Physician, heal thyself. “Sure. Lemme catch five out back and then you can take off.”

“Sweet, take your time!”

Jenny is already taking off her apron as Max desperately tries to get her face back on. The kitchen leads out into a small yard. There’s a spot for garbage, recycling and compost in one corner, but most of it is green, well-kept. The owner likes it, even if it doesn’t bring in money. Max thinks she should offer to help with the little garden. She thinks this to drag her thoughts back above the waterline.

 _Happy thoughts, Max,_ says a woman who hasn’t had a Happy Place in a very long time. She tilts her face into a waiting sun and breathes in. Breathes out. A few stretches, a few memories of laughter and she’s ready again, a face she’s not sure fits her back on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, and welcome to my latest fandom disaster, Life is Hard (And No One Understands). I should be writing half a dozen other things, but this is the only thing I've been able to write in quantity for _months_ for what I should hope should be obvious reasons. 
> 
> To my regular readers in another fandom, I apologize. I do finish what I start... eventually.
> 
> To new readers... I’m sorry, but nothing is what you think it is.


	3. The Happy Opposite of Anticipation

_This is a terrible idea,_ Max thinks to herself.

* * *

(we’ll catch up later)

* * *

Over the course of the week, she hadn’t seen Victoria again, thank god. Which was tragically ineffective at actually getting her off her mind, because when Max Caulfield crushes, she crushes hard. So hard that she made time to actually follow her own advice, checking out galleries about town.

As she was wont to, Victoria turned out to be right. The other three galleries were largely dead, clinical things. One had some life to it, with people chatting, but it quickly became apparent that they were friends of the owner, who couldn’t be bothered to interact with her. At least one of the others made the attempt and nearly fell over themselves when they heard her name. Funny, but not exactly enough to cover for their irritating elitism.

Max started from the bottom of the list printed on the pass Victoria gave her. This got her right up to the doors of what had to be the curator’s main offices instead of a gallery. She stopped outside the glass doors in mild befuddlement until she got to that realization, at which point she gave a sigh and resigned herself to trekking halfway across the city.

As she turned to go, however, the door slid open and a young woman stepped out nervously.

“Ah, can I help you?”

“Oh, sorry, I was just leaving. Wrong place,” Max flipped the card up casually, a shrug and a smile coming easily.

“Oh, uh, are you sure? It’s just that our boss mentioned we’d get a guest…”

“What, here?”

“No, um, at the galleries, but I guess I spread the word from here?”

“So Victoria’s making sure I get the best treatment by calling ahead, hmm?”

“Oh! No, that’s not it at all. She specifically said not to make a big deal about you, Ms. Caulfield. I’m just, uh, um. A fan. And can’t help myself.”

“Heh, well, that’s alright. And it’s Max.”

The girl grins. “I’m Ally! It’s so good to meet you, I absolutely love your work. I have all your photo books!”

“Erk, all of them?” Max winces jokingly.

“Oh don’t say that! Yes all of them. Even _of Illinois_.”

“Huh.” That’s a pleasant surprise. “Can I assume you’ll be at this huge exhibition Tori’s planning?”

Max immediately bites her tongue in anger as Ally’s eyes go wide at the diminutive. _I. Am a moron_. 

“Y-yes, I’ll be there, assuming we’re ready for it. Dammit I should get back to work. Please don’t tell Mrs. Chase about me gushing?”

That gets a blink. _Missus?_ “Sure, if you can promise to talk about _Illinois_ at the show to get people off the other works.”

“Deal! I’ll see you there, Max!”

* * *

_This might have been a mistake,_ Victoria thinks to herself.

* * *

(a bit later than this)

* * *

Hours spent pouring over that initial set of photos got her one she was happy with. She’d spent so much time hunched over in front of a screen motionless that when she straightened, her neck popped and her muscles screamed in protest. A wince marred her features. She is not young anymore.

That thought reminds her of the strands of white framing Max’s face and Victoria wonders if she’d ever have the guts to not dye her hair. Possibly when there were more than just patches. White was a sign of wisdom. Going white was a sign of weakness.

But those hours had paid off, and she had a set of ideas slowly cohering into a theme. Her work had ever been outward-facing, because it was more acceptable, consumable. Also, her younger self would probably not have been able to find the courage to turn the lens on herself. 

She wasn’t ready to take shots of her home, so the next logical choice was her workplaces. Halfway through the week she was primed to arrive at her galleries, ready to blast through taking shots when she realized how poorly her employees would take that, along with how it would mar the moments captured. 

So she compromised.

Back in its case went the camera and out came the wearable. A second generation Glass is _technically_ illegal now, but she’s not using it to invade anyone’s privacy. Everyone is under surveillance at work anyways. Now she just has to come up with a convincing reason to be wearing sunglasses in the middle of the day.

It wasn’t long before the opportunity presented itself.

A report from security hit her mailbox, letting her know that the flagged subject Max Caulfield had passed by a few of her galleries. Victoria sat up and tapped through the report, frowning at the mention that Ally had spent some time with Max at the main office. But the photographer still visited several of her galleries, so no harm done, she figured.

Security, or their software, had helpfully included links to profiles on Caulfield and while she figured she knew enough, she clicked one out of idle boredom. Twenty minutes later she was pulling a Berringer moscato out of the wine fridge and pouring it over ice. In a tall glass.

Christ, she’d missed out on a lot of Max’s work. On a lot of her life, besides. Victoria frowned. Not like she was supposed to be conversant in her life like she was in her work. But her interest was piqued and the next bottle was spent trying to dig up more info on what Max had done outside her work.

There was plenty of information before and immediately after Ukraine, but shortly thereafter, it started drying up. All she could get were Reuters and AP lines from her photo reports around disasters. No information followed her more urban, pastoral works, which probably explained why so few people knew about it. There was even an entire series on the Mumbai crashes last year that was just “strongly attributed” to her. 

Basically, outside information almost twenty years old, Max Caulfield was an enigma. Gossip rags called her queer, suffering from PTSD and half a dozen other ailments, but outside the first, she was not prepared to believe any of that. Max had been behaving strangely, but she’d always been weird. And gay as hell, but who gave a shit anymore?

The upshot of all that was that Victoria Chase walked into her galleries the next day thoroughly hungover and with a set of sunGlasses taking shots every ten seconds or on a double blink-click.

* * *

They enter at the same time, from different sides of the gallery. Victoria slips in from the offices, having changed back there. Max walks in the front door. They don’t see each other for a bit.

We’re almost caught up.

* * *

Max picks at the half-sweater of a shrug covering her shoulders. She’s not comfortable at parties to begin with, let alone ones that pretty much mandate formal wear. Victoria should feel honoured. She shaved her legs for this. Well, maybe not. Max likes the feel, it’s just _so much work oh my god_. But considering how much work she’s put in to come this far, it didn’t seem like that much at all.

Her eyes scan the crowd and her lips turn up in a lie as people murmur, recognizing her. Half-forgotten skills and mental subroutines come online as she makes her way through the crowd, politely engaging those brave enough to brush with a celebrity of her stature. She’s looking for Ally. Ally and Victoria. 

Thankfully Victoria’s assistant manages to find _her_ just as some vapid couple begin asking the kind of questions that get her hackles up.

“Max! We were wondering when you’d join us!”

The young woman bustles up, heels clacking with the slight awkwardness of someone either not used to them or slightly drunk. Either way, it’s more than Max can manage. She’s shown in flats. 

“Hi, Ally. Sorry, I seem to have crashed Victoria’s party again.”

“Oh? Make a habit of this?” the irritating woman trying to talk to her asks.

“Not in a lifetime,” Max deadpans.

“Really? I wasn’t aware that you and Mrs. Chase travelled in the same circles.”

There’s that “missus” again. Before Max is able to reply, however,

“No, it only means that once upon a time we had differing opinions on appropriate social behaviour at some money-grubbing private school.”

Max very nearly starts, but the entrance is so Victoria, it is not actually surprising.

“Oh, that’s being charitable. Victoria was a raging bitch and I was a nosy douche,” Max follows up offhandedly. Victoria flashes her a tight, tense grin, more of a baring of the teeth, really.

“Well, you said, it, not me.”

The conversation continues, with occasional asides back to this half-hearted sniping. It’s strange, but Max gets the feeling that Victoria despises these people as much as she does. No, that’s not right. Max doesn’t despise them, nor do Victoria’s feelings exactly mirror her own. Max feels sorry for them, and distantly confused how anyone can live a life like this. Victoria seems… _tired_ by their behaviour. And perhaps the confusion is beginning to surface for her as well.

_You’re being nosy again, Max. Your silly crush doesn’t give you any insight into “Mrs. Chase.”_

But Ally, Ally might be able to. And Max thinks it’s about time she called in her token for the night. With some experience in subtle communication between women much out of their depth, she catches Ally’s eye and cuts her gaze away from the group. The younger woman immediately brightens and makes her excuses, claiming she needs Ms. Caulfield to enlighten some naysayers of the pastoral.

“Oh thank fuck for socially competent assistants,” Max stage whispers when they’re out of earshot of what is now, distinctly, Victoria’s group. 

“Hehe, well, I try. Did you actually want to talk about your other works? Because I did some gruntwork before you and Victoria got here and I have a couple of people interested in your ideas. Or at least, interested in hearing about them from the famous Max Caulfield.”

Max blinks. “Wow, really?”

“Yeah, I mean, all it really took was implying that I knew about some hidden gems in your portfolio and the competition to outdo little old me started right up.”

That gets Ally some side-eye. “Cunning. I’m going to have to watch myself around you, aren’t I?”

An innocent blink.

“Well, gimme the skinny on what you told them about, so I don’t make an ass of both of us.”

“Appreciate it, Max.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong, if you were way off, I’m still gonna make an ass of you.”

The look of abject panic on Ally’s face should probably not give Max this much satisfaction.

* * *

Victoria is getting rather bored with the endless small-talk and inconsequential gossip. She’s a fan of real, actionable information as the next person, but this petty one-upmanship gets older faster every time she comes out to one of these. Hell, the only reason she hasn’t stopped coming entirely is that she doesn’t feel the time is right for her to take on a real reclusive persona. That’s probably another decade off, unfortunately.

But her musings on her future are interrupted by a Caulfield-shaped blur, rushing for the washrooms. A much more definable Ally follows on her heels, and Victoria excuses herself abruptly to turn an intercept her assistant.

“What _exactly_ have you done?” she hisses in the distraught young woman’s ear, resisting the urge to seize her arm.

“I- I- nothing! Someone brought up your contributions to your old high-school’s restoration fund and M- Ms. Caulfield went white. We explained that an earthquake leveled parts of Arcadia Bay and-”

“That’s enough. I suppose you didn’t cause this, _thankfully_ , but don’t think I’m not aware of your conspiring with Caulfield.” Ally has the decency to look chagrined. “Very well. Your punishment is this: gather the staff, make sure everything continues without a hitch. You’re in charge.”

Her eyes go wide and she falls behind, then starts and hurries to catch up, “Ok, got it. What are you going to do?”

“Get Max out of here before she paints my gallery whatever absurdly offensive colour her vomit is.”

“But, what am I supposed to tell the guests about Ms. Caulfield? Or you, disappearing?”

“Wow, sounds like something you’ll have to figure out,” Victoria breathes out airily, opening the women’s washroom door, stepping through and pointedly shutting it in Ally’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have had to split this in twain.


	4. Her Back, the Mantle; Things Missed in the Moment

She hopes her assistant has the sense to put some kind of sign in front of the women’s washroom, but the gallery owner has bigger problems right now. Like a hundred and thirty pounds of trembling photographer, hemmed in by dripping water in the corner of the washroom. A faucet runs, sideways, leaking water from the base. Victoria’s honestly surprised there isn’t a shattered web indicating someone punched the mirrors.

Closing on Max, though, she immediately feels guilty for the unkind thoughts. The woman’s eyes are focused on a horizon only she can see and her fingers grip her upper arms in a death vise. Victoria is out of her element, but Max obviously needs someone.

“Hey,” she murmurs, crouching a few feet from Max. “You okay?”

No response.

“Hey,” she says, a little more forcefully. When that doesn’t work, she says, firmly, “Max. Can you hear me?”

The other woman’s eyes dart to her and flicker back at nothing, and for an instant Victoria thinks she may have imagined the moment, but then Max nods and she breathes a sigh of relief. 

“You look like hell. Wanna get out of here and talk about it?”

Max’s lips works, once, twice, and then like they’re speaking a hundred words a minute, but nothing, no sound, comes out. Her eyes dart between things not there and her wrist works in something that looks like a nervous twitch.

Then,

“It’s at this point I usually make a snappy statement about you being worried about me ruining your show, but right now I’m convinced you actually care.” Max sniffs mightily, like she’s sucking back a huge booger and stands, shakily. Victoria follows, but stops short as Max stumbles to a stall, horks once and vomits noisily. Hacking and coughing follow as the stall door bangs shut desultorily. 

The rolling sound of toilet paper, one last spit and Max steps out, still looking shaky as hell, but aware. Victoria gestures to the back of the washroom and unlocks what looks like a storage closet.

“Sometimes we need to get celebrities out discretely.” Max gives a jerky nod, but Victoria’s attention is on her phone as she summons her car. The pair navigates the dim, narrow hallways behind the walls of the gallery to a door marked “Exit.” The heavy emergency doors part and they’re met by bright lights. Max swears, expecting the flash of cameras and yammer of cheap paparazzi, but Victoria is already stalking forward, grabbing a door of her car and holding it open. The only lights are the car’s and they are alone here.

“Come on. It looks like the sooner you get sat, the better you’ll feel.”

Gratefully, Max manages to lower herself into the cushy interior of the car. Victoria slides in behind her and flicks through options on her phone while shutting the door. She tries to ignore the heaving sigh of relief that Max lets out as the door clicks shut.

“Alright, Cinderella, where to?” she asks, lifting her head from her phone and car settings. She goes still at Max’s posture, head buried in her hands, curled up in the corner again.

“....you ok there, Caulfield?” she asks, feeling like a broken record. A murmur from the other woman, and before she can press the issue,

“Christ, I’m making an idiot of myself. I’m sorry Victoria, I never meant to…”

Not sure what to say, and not sure a hand on her knee is appropriate, Victoria knocks her knee against Max’s until the other woman looks up.

“Do you need air, space, or a drink?”

* * *

Max’s head, no, her life, is spinning around her, as she tumbles through an existential crisis and the woman beside her is very warm and very unaware of how much Max wants to kiss her for that question right now and wow yeah, the chemicals in her body probably need some regulating.

“I think I’m gonna need a drink.”

* * *

Now, _now_ , we’re caught up.

Can you see the million-and-one stars born of lovers making their mistakes, their choices? Close your eyes and watch the fireworks of those content in what they’ve found, the end result of months of -

Ah, but no. You’re not here to listen to me talk. And ew are not _quite_ there yet. There are not yet even lovers, only the promise, the inevitability of them. Perhaps I give away too much here. But you seem like clever folk. You knew where this was going to end up.

Shall we watch the cavalcade of glorious mistakes, the slow growth of affection? Come now, you know you cannot ignore its magnetism any more than our characters. We are all well-versed in the tropes of romance, and as much as we know the virtually inevitable outcome, the path there holds our attention.

* * *

“Double Jameson and a Manhattan, please.”

Victoria’s eyes arch up at the order. That was about two hundred percent more hardcore than she was expecting from the slender, rough-hewn woman beside her. She clears her throat and follows up with, “I’ll have a Manhattan as well, thank you.”

When the bartender turns to deal with their orders, Max puts her forearms on the counter and leans in, head hanging for a moment. A deep breath in, shifting the shrug around her shoulders to reveal black and vibrant blue ink, and she straightens. She turns to Victoria, who now has to put aside her sudden curiosity for attention. Max’s attention, which is fully on her.

“Victoria thank you so much for getting me out of there and I am _so_ sorry for ruining your-”

In a gesture of hard-won imperiousness, Victoria waves off the apology.

“Forget it. Your evident well-being takes precedence over a show and even if you, by some miracle _you enormous egomaniac_ , single-handedly ruined an exhibition, my reputation can stand a few blows.”

Max turns her head away and Victoria fights to suppress an urge to lean over to track her face, to see what expression she wears. The light is dim in here and she can’t be sure that’s a blush spreading up Max’s throat. Magnanimity wins out and instead she asks,

“Without prying too much, can I ask what, ah, set you off?”

Max bites her lip and almost looks back at her. “It’s… a long story.”

“You don’t have to tell it if you don’t want to,” Victoria says quickly, “I’d just rather know if I shouldn’t mention Arcadia Bay…”

A silence, almost companionable.

“That’s good of you, thanks. You don’t have to censor yourself around me, it’s just…”

Their drinks arrive, neatly covering Max’s trailing silence. Victoria watches the other woman knock back the whiskey before picking up the cocktail. She accepts the other one and clinks glasses in a toast.

“Look, Victoria. I don’t do well with… any sort of disaster these days. A lot of my ‘fame,’” and here she laughs, “is really unwelcome, especially anything that associates me with tragedy.”

“That’s entirely understandable. So you’re saying it’s better to avoid talking about calamity than Arcadia Bay.”

“It’s more that I have… a lot of hangups with Arcadia Bay _before_ even mentioning the mass-destruction thereof.”

Victoria remembers the teenager trying to deal with the murder of her once-best friend in the first term of school, the girl who seemed to age a year in a day. Without realizing it, her hand rests on Max’s.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can see that.”

Max looks down at the hand on hers in shock, and Victoria freezes, begins to pull away, but Max turns her hand palm up and holds her tight. A squeeze.

“Thanks, Victoria.”

She lets go and Victoria slides the offending(ed?) hand in a well-concealed pocket. 

“Anyways!” Max says, her voice high and obviously false. “Happier things: what’s this about a Mrs. Chase?”

Victoria freezes. She doesn’t know why. She’s had to field this question dozens of times, more and less delicately put. But now, in front of Caulfield, she stumbles. 

“...goddammit, that’s not a happier thing, is it.”

“No, Max, it’s not that. Just took me by surprise is all.” Victoria downs the rest of her Manhattan and clacks it down on the hardwood countertop. When the bartender returns, she just asks for, "The Ruby, please. All of it."

"I'm not married now, if that's what you're asking," she begins. "I have been, though. Twice, if you can believe it."

From her expression, Max can't. That quirks Victoria's lips. The bartender comes back with a clear, polished bottle of MacAllan Ruby, half empty, and two glasses. Max's expression gets even more incredulous.

"What, never been friends with a bar owner?"

"Several times," Max manages, "But no one in the states just lets me walk off with a bottle."

"Make better friends." Victoria says over her shoulder as she leads them to a corner.

* * *

It's not a booth, but it is hemmed in by two, making a strange, open diamond of a space in a corner. A tiny round table with two stools, it could maybe fit three people, standing. There's a waist-high ledge that Victoria leaves her bag on and little else besides a third stool, hidden deeper in the corner. The shadows of the pub draw deeper here, and the bottle glimmers richly in what light’s left. It’s like they’re stealing a treasure away from vigilant eyes and Max gets a ridiculous thrill from the silly thought.

She’d ordered the whiskey before because it was strong and smooth enough that she could down it, and the Manhattan because she knew it flowed well as a chaser. She’s normally a beer drinker, so when Victoria slides a glass with a measure of the good stuff across to her, she’s apprehensive.

“What’s the matter, Caulfield, never had good whiskey before?”

“I don’t even know what’s good,” Max confesses.

“Well this is, and you’re probably going to choke on it if you down it like Jameson.” Snobbery colours her opposite’s tone, but it’s so apropos Max is just amused. “Here, I’m going to give you a 20-second crash course in enjoying whiskey.”

She picks up the glass and motions for Max to do the same. Lifting it to her nose, she says, “Take a sniff, with your mouth open and appreciate the nose, then take a deeper one once you’ve had a chance to acclimatize.”

Max does so, and her sinuses nearly exploded with fumes. “Shallower than that at first, Max. Gently, and then deeper.”

“That was plenty gentle,” mutters Max. But she tries for a repeat and sure enough it burns less and she can smell... a whole lot of things she can’t identify.

“Now, less than a mouthful and just hold it there for a bit, breathing around it.”

Max’s mouth catches aflame at this, but she can _taste_ the difference, pick out flavours she still can’t identify. Holy shit, were snobs actually right about this stuff? Just as it is getting hard to feel her tongue below the fire, Victoria swallows, a slow, deliberate thing and Max’s eyes trace the sinfully slow gulp. She manages not to blush, to keep her cool and then Victoria breathes out like a baby dragon and that’s it, that’s when Max goes red as God’s own Hell. She swallows, coughs and chokes to excuse the blush and even then, the afterburn is delicious.

“Well. That could have gone worse,” comments Victoria, dryly. 

“Again,” Max sputters. “That was good.”

“Hell, Max, slow it down. Just a sip this time. It’s not Kong, something to pound back like you’re in some terrible noir.”

“Fuck, I’ve had that stuff. No idea how you’re supposed to manage a bottle.”

“Masculinity,” intones Victoria in a voice so deep it burbles and cracks her throat, shattering the uber-serious mask of her face. Max giggles at the sound and the cracking Victoria’s facade. 

They sip the next glass, sequestered from the world and Max is surprised by how comfortable it seems. She has plenty experience just letting things flow, even when she herself is flustered, but she’d never have placed Victoria as laid back, or a passive partner in conversation. But a glass goes down on either side and the bottle empties a little more before one of them speaks.

“My first husband was a big, loveable dork of an artist.”

Max’s attention, wandering to things like the pub, Victoria’s bare legs and how much of a mistake this really was, snaps back to the small blonde.

“I nurtured his talent, he supported me and it was all good fun. But he wanted things I couldn’t give and he was too... suburban for me. Picket fences, perfect smiles, sacrifices for the family. All that.”

That imperious, dismissive wave again. “Don’t get me wrong, we’re still on excellent terms. Jacob’s a wonderful friend and I wouldn’t give him up for the world. But giving him up was... the right thing to do. As much as it cost.”

Max’s heart seizes for a moment as memories of the right thing crash against her. Her eyes go wide, her heartbeat speeds up and she has to fight to maintain her composure. Victoria looks like she’s about to notice so Max covers with a half-sympathetic,

“Oh, Victoria...”

Half-sympathetic. She hates herself, even as Victoria’s lips quirk and she waves it off, imperiousness lost.

“Nonsense. It’s as good an end as you could hope for.” She takes a longer sip of the Macallan. “My second husband, on the other hand, met an end too good for him.

I buried him.”

Stillness. In some grand co-incidence the pub beyond them goes quiet at the same time, its noise fading in time with Victoria’s baleful proclamation. The atmosphere gets to her and she snorts in amusement.

“Oh, nothing that drastic. He was an ass, tried to take advantage of me and my money and when he went too far, I ruined his life.”

Victoria’s face is once again a stone monolith, her gaze laser sharp, if a touch wandering. Chills tickle at Max’s spine, and as much as she hates it, she can’t deny the attraction to obvious danger. 

“So. Mrs. Chase. Because why deny what I am? Also, it keeps the suitors at bay. I don’t particularly feel like being chased by so much as one more gold digger.”

Well. That was more revealing than Max had expected and probably more than Victoria had planned, given how she just pounds back the rest of the glass, ignoring her own advice. Max returns earlier courtesies and refills her glass. 

“I see.”

That’s it. That’s all. That’s Max’s answer to what she’s sure is the privilege of a look at Victoria’s personal life. As she slips into a contemplative silence, Victoria manages a small laugh.

“Things I’d never thought I’d do: talk about boys with you. Hell, can you imagine this back in high school?”

Max smiles, a real thing, born of happy memories that never happened. It clearly sets Victoria back, such understanding and warmth at such a strange moment. But that’s her problem, not Max’s.

“There are universes out there, Tori, where we were fast friends at eighteen.”

Victoria sits up like a lightning bolt coursed through her, and Max swears internally. 

“ _What_ did you call me, Caulfield?”

“Hell, the alcohol must be getting to me. Sorry Victo-”

“It’s alright. Even Jacob wouldn’t call me... by a pet name.” 

Max swears she can feel every course of blood through her veins. The pump of her lifeblood pounds in her head and she struggles between obfuscation and flight. She chooses flight and swallows more. 

“So. If we’re doing Transparency Tuesdays here...”

“Max, don’t. You’ve been through so-”

“Victoria, trust me, please, when I say what I’ve been through makes tonight look like the worst broad daylight puppet show.”

“A-alright.” The smaller women is clearly taken aback by the cold, hard stone in her voice. Max swears again, so sure that she’d buried that aspect of herself beneath what she conceptualized as her “real” self. Another pull of the whiskey, another bath in the fire of the mouth and mind and she’s almost ready, almost ready to reveal all. Instead,

“I was in love with Chloe Price.”

Max has an entire explanation to follow up on that and despite the fact that she’s primed to follow up on it from nights in front of the mirror, she stops there, dead. There’s nothing more to say. There’s nothing more to say to anyone who understands, she realizes.

From Victoria’s face, she doesn’t understand. But she’s trying, oh god, she’s trying. Max so wants to take it as a cue to continue, but she falters, she second guesses herself. 

She is so comfortable in this one-sided fling with the ideal of the best of humanity that the idea of so much as honestly reaching out with feelings buried for an age longer than most humans live terrify her. Victoria Chase terrifies her with all her proud flaws, selfish choices, her life lived on terms not always her own.

* * *

Max manages a single sentence in return before seizing up. Instincts long buried stir themselves in Victoria’s heart and that hand in her pocket wants to touch her again. But she withholds and it doesn’t. Max choked out that last line, and it has clearly cost her. “Hangups with Arcadia Bay” indeed. She lost her first love in a town that never loved her and then spent her life following... 

No, that is unkind. From what Victoria has gleaned, she has spent her life being _chased_ by disaster. 

Max’s face immediately closes and Victoria knows that is that. She won’t be getting any more out of her beyond that teenage confession, that terrible peephole on a teenager’s life. Her hand clenches in her pocket and she downs the last of the Macallan. Her life hasn’t been easy, but what has this other woman, this old classmate, this old woman had to go through?

So she staggers up, holds out her hand and says, 

“Want to get out of here? If we stay here, I think we’re gonna need to be shipped home in crates.”

After a moment of obvious consternation, Max takes her hand, rises.

“Sure, where to?”

* * *

The fancy car is pretty bare, for all its luxury, so the photographer is stuck trying to distract herself from the fact that Victoria Chase has invited her up to her penthouse. Oh, it’s certainly comfortable, all heated leather and artfully arched seats. The floor is even a lush, fluffy faux-fur instead of the budget carpet that Max has seen in corporate limousines. 

It is Victoria herself who leaps to her rescue, sparing her buzzing brain from the need to make small talk. 

“Hey, Caulfield, make yourself vaguely useful,” she cracks, catching Max’s eye with a look to make it clear she’s only joking. “What critiques would you give this budding photographer?”

From her bag, Victoria produces a firm folder, that opens to reveal professionally framed, almost clinical set of pics. “What’s your take on these?”

Max takes the folder and flips gently through the pages, nodding thoughtfully. She can feel Victoria’s drunk, steady gaze on her. There’s a taste of the unguarded about it, as if she is risking a lot by showing this. The pictures are raw, without much touch-up that she can see and she comes to a conclusion relatively quickly. But she bites it back. She reviews the shots of people’s backs, the empty vistas and her heart goes out to the photographer. Her heart goes out to...

* * *

“Is this the whole collection?” Max asks and its all Victoria can do to bite back some vitriolic response. Of course she can’t hide the obvious from one of the most famous photographers in the world. 

“That’s what I’m showing to my gallery heads.” At Max’s look, she elaborates, “All of my galleries have creative freedom and right of consequenceless refusal from my promotions.”

It’s one of the reasons she can be an enormous, cold-hearted bitch, the fact that she values her employees input so highly. Within their own realms of authority, they know their word is worth more than gold. They also know they need to live up to it. She can demand inhuman hours and know that her people will fill them, secure in the knowledge that their boss will back every hour, every reference. But against Max, she is making excuses. 

Max nods, and closes the folder. Victoria takes it, sensing approval from the other woman. 

“It’s a great set, Victoria. As good an interpretation of modern urban life as I’ve ever seen. But...”

Hesitation. Such hesitation. Victoria kills her urge to scan a non-existent crowd for nay-sayers even as she curses her own insecurities. 

“Where’s the first pic?”

Victoria sits back. Of all the questions and challenges she expected, that was not among them. Max’s arms are folded across her stomach, shrug clinging closely to her and reducing her whole outline to that of a sage, a hermit, instead of a visionary explorer. But her eyes... her eyes know. There’s a pause, like the last-minute recalculation of a predator.

“Where’s your first pic, Victoria?”

Victoria does not flinch. 

“Where are you in this set?”

A snapping rustle of paper and the whole portfolio is crammed back into Victoria’s bag, the issue formally closed. Victoria’s business instincts take over and she begins to shut down, begins to form a blase response to the woman across from her in the limo.

Instead, that woman shifts, slides across the small space to nestle in beside her. Victoria’s eyes’ cut away from Max instinctively before being drawn back. _What do you want?_ is the unspoken question. Because she’s not paying direct attention, she misses the uncertainty, the hesitation in Max Caulfield’s eyes, even as her long, lanky body presses against her.

“What makes you think there’s a first picture?”

“The narrative is well-constructed. It’s almost _verbal_ how dense it is. But it lacks a... ‘hello,’ if you will.”

“And why is it mine?”

A pause.

A long pause. Of respect, of deliberation. 

“Tori...”

Her jaws crush her own heart in a spasm of knowledge, of terror.

“Who did you develop these for?”

Through the pea-soup of the alcohol, Victoria’s brain works. It makes connections, from her own statements and Max’s, and it draws conclusions. In vicious self-denigration, it removes her from the equation, removes Max from the same. But the equation from there makes no sense. Her logic does not work without a rival. She does not measure up without a measure.

* * *

The car stops before a high rise, all glimmering white and steel. It is Max’s last chance to thank Victoria, to move on and pursue other choices, other life paths. There is this last opportunity to flee, to hide in the comforting dark of her apartment, wrapped up in memories of times long past, and regrets too fresh. Flight from a way forward.

She does not take it.

* * *

She draws Victoria from the car in her own condos’ garage and the blonde has to wonder where she got this confidence.

* * *

Max steps out the parked car and draws the pliant, welcoming woman out from it. An arm slips around a waist and holds tight. Warmth seeks warmth as an elevator seeks the uppermost floor.

* * *

There is a _ding_ as the doors open on Victoria’s floor and she flees the warmth of Max’s arms. She powers through her door, leaving it open for the taller woman, and flips the lights on in the front hall, the kitchen, until she is standing in her living room, fighting the reflexive urge to toss her bag. There is a quiet set of clicks, clacks, as Max follows her, shutting doors and turning off lights behind her. That last set of noises begins to steal the last vestiges of will from the shorter woman, who moves forward and removes a single picture from among those of her life on the living room mantle. 

Her face is framed behind a camera, held rakishly before her as she moves to capture the best shots of a series.

“This,” she manages, haltingly, “This is the first picture.”

There is a promise of heat behind her, beside her, as Max’s arm snakes around to hold the shot. Victoria swallows, hard. She can’t help thinking that this isn’t like the girl she knew at all. When did Caulfield get so good at seducing people? Because she has little doubt that is what this is. 

“Oh,” whispers Max, a little breathily. “That makes sense.”

Victoria turns, takes in the woman very, very close to her. Max’s eyes are glue to the shot, and Victoria could almost believe that she’s been forgotten. But there’s fidgeting. Max’s heel pops from her flat and slides back in, and the fingers of her free hand, clench and unclench. It’s a relief, knowing that her opposite is clearly nervous. 

“So?” A challenge. “What do you think?”

Max’s hand passes her to replace the photo on the mantle. It rests there and its owner closes the distance slightly. A tremor, a shiver, rolls through Victoria as Max holds her eyes. She doesn’t back up though. Her chin lifts, in defiance, and her lips curl, as if in victory.

“I think you’re very brave.”

Confusion. “Er, what?”

The jarring statement doesn’t help the blonde’s bravado. “How is that being brave?”

“You’re starting something new, or starting anew, and you’re sharing it with the world.” A small, shy smile with a wide mouth. “It’s part and parcel of photography, Victoria. I love getting to see other sides to people.”

“Well,” Victoria breathes, “I hope you’re pleased with the sides you’re seeing. Not that I’m doing this for your benefit.”

“Victoria,” Max says, reaching out with her free hand. “I think it’s pretty obvious I am.”

She takes a small, pale hand and raises it up. Victoria realizes what she’s about to do, and that’s when she makes her decision. Inches from Max’s lips, Victoria extends a finger, silencing and stopping Max.

“Listen, Caulfield. I don’t know what gave you the impression that you could just waltz up here and try to seduce me, but you are patently wrong.”

The shock and regret in Max’s eyes is visible and delicious. So Victoria presses the point, stepping in until the space between them could not be measured in handspans. 

“I don’t get seduced, Max.” The finger leaves slim lips and traces a path behind Max’s ear. Regret turns to wonder, but there’s plenty of shock left. It’s with a certain childish glee that she did that, that she turned the tables successfully that Victoria cups Max’s face, goes on tippy-toe and presses a soft kiss to the other woman’s mouth.

It is dry, welcoming and if it could be considered chaste, it soon isn’t. Max’s hands find her hips, her neck and she deepens the kiss. _Oh._ She tastes like candied winter fruit and the fragrant remains of whiskey burning on a palate.

Victoria isn’t one to moan at the drop of a hat, but Max is quite possibly the best kisser she’s ever felt, and that’s before the light scratches trace their way up her neck. Heat coils up from the smaller woman’s center and she leans in, leans up, wanting more. Hands coming up to cup both sides of Max’s face, she finds she wants a _lot_ more.

It has been a while since Victoria Chase has taken anyone to bed and she’s never brought a woman home, but it feels almost entirely natural guiding the taller woman to her bed, being peeled out of a dress, laid down with a down of ember kisses stoking her pale form into a fire. Breathing heavily and hands shaking, she barely manages to find the zipper to Max’s dress, but soon enough she’s scoring lines of sweet fire down her back, nails making it quite clear that Victoria _does_ want this, want Max. The high, whining gasp that Max gives is one of the hottest things she’s ever heard and so gratifying.

Then Max descends to her neck, her breasts, and Victoria’s voice leaves her. Max, on the other hand, turns out to be quite loud, unless things muffle her throaty voice.


	5. A Sadness Wrapped in Blankets

Her eyes fly open and Max Caulfield stares into a room unfamiliar, not hers. Her form goes still and her breath hitches; she’s remembering the night before and going red. _Ohhh, wowsers. I really need to reel it in,_ one part of her thinks. _The hell you do,_ another part of her purrs, like a cat stretching in the sun.

_Both of you need to shut the fuck up, we’re on shift this morning._

Max bites her lip in a silent _fuck_ , and slowly turns her head. Her heart immediately speeds up and she has to quash an unkind giggle. Victoria is passed out on her stomach, mouth open. She’d probably be drooling, but her mouth looks uncomfortably dry. Speaking of, Max can feel the threatening pulse of a hangover breaking the surface of her still-drunk state.

She winces at the thought of a shift in this state.

Then she winces at the thought of showing up as the front-running float of the I-Got-Laid Parade and weathering Jenny’s teasing. 

God.

Better to get this over with. Ripping bandages off, et cetera, et cetera.

She slips out from the sinfully warm covers and shivers in the cool air. Victoria doesn’t stir, thank god. It’s not that Max wants to avoid the morning after conversation (she totally wants to avoid the morning after conversation, but she doesn’t not want to have it either), but this is much easier if she can just duck out with a note and beg forgiveness later. It doesn’t even occur to her that there wouldn’t be a later.

The hunt for her things is mercifully quick, the hastily put-together catalogue of where things got thrown last night being mostly accurate, and she’s slipping the shrug over her shoulders, when she hears,

“...Max?”

She has the good sense not to freeze, turning and clutching her hands as if in prayer to Victoria.

“Tori, I swear I’m not fucking and running, I just have a shift that I’m like, ninety percent sure I’m late for, so I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run!” 

* * *

Victoria wakes up with a pounding headache and a distant need to pee. Her immediate reaction to this is to bury her face into her pillow in an attempt to snuff her very life out, but that doesn’t really sit well with her, and the slow asphyxiation is kind of making her want to throw up. Also, there is shuffling in her bedroom, which is _just kind of suspicious_. Oh, and the pillow smells of someone else, so her mind is starting to spin up.

Her head comes up just as fabric obscures a tattoo of sprawling black ink and bright blue spots on a woman’s back. Scenes from last night register as she recognizes the woman and her heart skips a beat.

“...Max?”

She turns in a flurry of dark clothes and the look she gives is so earnest Victoria’s first reaction is almost to snort in derision, as much as that would spike her headache.

“Tori, I swear I’m not fucking and running, I just have a shift that I’m like, ninety percent sure I’m late for, so I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run!”

The pet name, the look on her face, and her own nakedness cause Victoria a long pause as she tries to answer. In that time, Max has fled, and Victoria defaults to the urge in her bones.

She falls back into her bed, and blessed sleep.

* * *

Sure enough, she was late, but by virtue of sensible shoes at all costs and a flat-out sprint perfected in places best left unremembered, only by a few minutes. She skidded around the counter, blabbering apologies and ducked into the back for a t-shirt and apron. Behind a counter, very few people paid attention to you below the waist. People on the same side of the counter on the other hand…

In a way, Max was lucky about being late. Five minutes earlier and Jenny would have had more time to unload both barrels into her.

As it stands, they get through the morning rush before Jenny starts in.

“Oh. My. God. Max. You give me hope, you know that?”

“Come again?”

“I mean, you’re like fifty-”

“I’m thirty-nine!” Max squeaks in protest.

“So, like, fifty,” Jenny continues blithely, “and getting you some like it ain’t no thing.”

Max at this point is going red in the face, not to mention neck and shoulders. She hasn’t the shrug now, the cafe being far too warm for that, so she is extra thankful for the spare tees just lying on shelving in the back.

“And I wanna ask who it was, but that would be, like, playing it way too coy when the girls and I have been basically betting how long it would take you and Bitchface to do the do.”

“Betting!?” Another squeak. Max might die from embarrassment of them before dying from more, ah, obvious embarrassment.

“Oh man, not even a denial!”

“Well…!” Max waves in consternation. “Shut up, I can never get used to this!”

“Ha, get used to what? Getting ribbed because you’re-”

“She’s what, Jenny?” The owner shoulders her way out of the back, carrying a box that would probably break Max’s back. He drops the thing on the counter. “I hope whatever you’re ragging poor Max about can-”

He stops, looking at the photographer. Her dress. Her once-done hair. Amusement flickers through his eyes, but the stoic face doesn’t crack. He returns to unpacking.

“Continue.”

Jenny howls with laughter and Max swats him with a dishcloth. Still red, but ebbing from embarrassment to happiness, she thinks that there are worse ways to face a day, worse ways to distract her from the helplessness and pain that she was drowning in last night before being hauled, almost bodily, out of it by Victoria Chase.

* * *

Victoria on the other hand, is not sure if there are worse ways to wake up than missing a memory of warmth and pleasure and facing the brutal reality of a dull, incessant thudding in her head. She pushes the memory aside and looks down at her traitorous legs, the damn things having kicked her covers clear at some point during the morning. She shivers and regrets the convulsive movement in seconds. 

Carefully she rolls out of bed and hurries to a peg behind the door to her room for a robe to hide nakedness and more importantly warm the hell up. That accomplished, she pads to the kitchen, takes two hydrating tablets and knocks them back with water. There’s going to be a lot of water in her future, she can tell. A bagel is made, perfunctorily, the thing getting popped out far too early in order to get a fine slathering of bland cream cheese before being jammed into the ravenous maw currently masquerading as her stomach. Boiling water is decanted into a french press before the half-awake woman remembers to add the coffee.

All that done, Victoria finally has a chance to sit at her kitchen table, staring dully out into her apartment and recall the night before, munching a second, properly toasted bagel .

_Well,_ comes the thought. _That happened._

It’s the last cogent thought for a while, her brain slowly sorting through the slow tumble of emotions and tingling memories, trying to process this latest development in her already over-complicated life.

There’s definitely those typical questions of sexuality that come with one’s first real time with someone outside their usual spectrum, but Victoria is surprised by how little she cares. She’d experimented in university and then gotten on with her life, having decided there just wasn’t a spark with women. Perhaps that was just it - there had been a spark with Max last night. There had _definitely_ been a spark. A pulse of warmth at her center and shifting legs accompany a memory of hands clawing a smooth back and teeth pressed into breasts.

_A rival, I thought._ A snort. _I am a goddamn idiot._

Or maybe that was it. It was like a hatefuck without the hate, but still the desire to push and pull at another’s very fibre. Resistance and pushback overlapping desire and intimacy. It was new experience, to be sure. Victoria’s partners have been few and far inbetween after her twenties, so the pure spontaneity of the previous night was something else.

A sip of coffee goes down.

It was something else, alright. Was it something she is going to seek out again? That’s another question entirely. She knows what her body wants, that’s for sure. Max displayed a lot of, ah, experience with women’s bodies and Victoria’s tongue slips out to wet her lips at the memory. But would it be a good idea, intellectually or emotionally? Victoria is a reserved person for several very good reasons and although she’s fairly certain that Max won’t betray her based on her character, there’s always the fear of loss and commitment.

Another sip.

Still, Max was apparently here for a “break,” so however long that may be, it was unlikely to be permanent. But she was vulnerable and clearly recovering from something, so even were she to leave, would it be in Victoria’s best interests to shack up with a potentially… well, damaged is a cruel word to use, but her brain wasn’t functioning well enough yet to come up with a better one. Would it even be fair to Max, just using her for sex?

_Oh, really? That’s what you think you were doing last night? That it was just Max’s gangly, flat body that you wanted?_

Victoria scowls and takes a large swallow of the hot coffee. It’s just below searing and she winces as it goes down, but it shakes her out of her introspection. There’s more to do today than mope or pine or whatever the hell this nonsense is. She’s been neglecting her work and that just won’t do.

* * *

When Max finally gets off, she is really starting to feel it in her feet. There was not nearly enough sleep last night, and it is a chore getting home. It’s not on the other side of the city, but it's still ten minutes on the bus, which is simultaneously too long around people for her right now and too short to give her feet a rest. But she is reminded that she didn’t get enough sleep last night and it brings a small smile to her mouth.

Embarrassment is fading and only the memory remains. She was surprised by Victoria’s willingness to be lead and not at all surprised by her fondness for nails and teeth. Surprised again by a woman who pressed up against her sleepily and held her tight, soft kisses whispering across her skin in a half-awake state. She shakes her head in fond amusement as she moves up the creaking wooden stairs to her apartment. 

Last night had certainly been a surprise in a great many ways, and Max is pretty sure that the good ones outweighed the bad ones. A shudder runs through her as she unlocks her door, thinking about the visions of Arcadia Bay that set her off. No, not visions, that word is too loaded. Bright, painfully bright memories of noise and ruin, of loss and broken hearts. She winces, remembering too much and touches the skin beneath her nose. 

At least she had been able to hide the worst from Victoria. People were willing to ascribe a lot of messy bodily functions to someone suffering trauma, but a nose leaking blood raised questions. Better to pretend to vomit and blow it all out in a toilet. Her clothing goes in a pile by her hamper, not even in it and she climbs into the shower, intent on relaxing.

She makes it all the way through the motions of cleaning up, drying off, pulling on pajamas before breaking down halfway through stirring tea. The little whirlpool of the tea triggers a memory of a tornado large enough to destroy a town and her hand starts shaking. She gives a little laugh as the shake spreads to her arms and she has to brace herself, palms flat on the wooden countertop as a panic reaction flushes through her system again. She grits her teeth in a grin, focusing on the grain of the wood countertop, the realness of it as a distant part of her is saying, 

_At least it’s not the same old tired ones. Well, it’s old, but I haven’t had it in a while. Refreshing almost, even if it is terrible._

Eventually, she wipes the sweat from her brow, beaded there from the reaction and manages to have her tea. At least last night she could bury herself in someone else to run from the memories. Tonight she’ll have to face them by herself. She could go out, meet some people, find a show, but she is just so _tired_. So it’s a night in, spent in front of a laptop, mindless entertainment to blot out the spinning, pulsing star of her mind and memories. 

_Time to start running,_ she thinks, passing a half-unpacked box of camera equipment. There’s a small, hard couch with a rough blanket across the back of it, and that’s where she spends the rest of her night. The laptop is a small core of warmth on her belly when her arm finally flops free in sleep. Time passes in the small apartment and when the smart sensors note no significant movement, they kill the lights. The laptop’s light dims in the dark until it is impossible to see anything of the boxes and bags that lie strewn about the place. Not hardly a house, and certainly not a home for the woman wrapped in an old blanket, on an old couch, soul aching from old wounds.


	6. Iunno

It's three days before Victoria can make time to go see Max. She isn't looking forward to the part where she's going to explain that she was pulling a “make them sweat” on the other woman, but she knows that's what it looks like. That, and the unbelievable fact that they don't have each other's numbers has seriously rubbed her the wrong way working long hours in the gallery. She half-expected Max to call her office, but she can absolutely see her chickening out as soon as she got the receptionist.

So she's hopeful that this will go well as she steps into the cafe, on the cusp of what she's learned is the end of Max's shift.

* * *

There's a worn business card in Max's wallet that's seen a lot of handling over the past several days. The once-crisp edges of the black cardstock are frayed and folded and it bears more than a few grease and coffee stains. The amount of times she's nearly called Victoria's offices can't be counted, at least by a woman trying to hold on to her sanity. Every time she resolves to make the call, another excuse rears its head. _What if she's not there? It isn't appropriate. You don't want to disturb her, she's a busy woman._

Part of her still tells her to just let it go, that they both had their fun and that there's no reason to pursue anything more. Victoria seems to have settled down well here, and it's not like someone divorced twice doesn't know what they want. Max doesn't even know how long she's going to be in the city, so it wouldn't be fair to her to start something that could very well become serious, only to gallivant off. So few people were willing to do long-distance relationships that Max had become used to brief, intense flings. But she was very bad at advertising that fact, and she didn't want Victoria to think she was leading her on.

“Alright Caulfield,” Paul rumbles from the front, interrupting her dishwashing introspection. “You're off-shift.”

She looks up at the clock and frowns. Almost five minutes early. The owner never lets people off early for no reason. Maybe Jenny or one of the other girls showed early for once?

“Just a minute, I want to finish this tubful!” Max calls back, scrubbing away.

It takes her a bit to realize Paul's leaning against the doorjamb to the back area, staring at her with his arms crossed. When she finally notices him, he pointedly looks at her, then over his shoulder.

“You know, I don't think I've ever known anyone as determinedly allergic to good fortune or opportunity as you, young lady.”

“I've got five months on you, old man.”

“And right now you're showing every one of them. Get out there.”

“Yeesh, fine, do the dishes yourself, you crab.”

“That's what Jenny's for.”

“Why are you in such a rush to get rid of me, anyways? Ohh, wait, can it be? Do I actually get a chance to mock _you_ instead? Do you have a ladyfriend coming in?”

Paul presents his very best stonefaced silence and Max laughs.

“Oh man! It is! You do!” Max tosses her apron over a hook and ditches her gloves and sidles past the burly man. “Don't worry, I'll get my all-too-tempting self out of here.”

“Tempting how, exactly, Caulfield?”

Max freezes at the voice, slowly turning to the front counter. Paul, meanwhile, gives a snort of amusement and mutters something about “absolutely allergic to it.” Victoria is leaning against the counter chin propped up on the heel of a hand. Max thanks what God there might be that she's wrapped up against the rain, because right now she probably could not stand an eyeful of Victoria's cleavage; she is already reddening.

“I, ah, I don't know,” Max manages. “Why don't you tell me?”

The shorter woman's perfectly sculpted eyebrows arch at the return fire. Max knows how Victoria feels, she didn't think she had it in her either.

“Maybe I will. Come on, let's get you out of here before you break something in your awkwardness.”

“I'm not going to break anything,” Max mutters, even as her elbow very nearly takes out the milk jug.

* * *

_I am very, very good at what I do, sometimes,_ Victoria reflects.

Upon leaving the cafe, the pair had walked into a thundershower and while Max stared mournfully up at the sky Victoria simply handed her an umbrella. Max stared at it, opened it, and while her hands were up, occupied with that, Victoria slipped an arm through the taller woman's, resting her hand on her arm. A start, and Max was staring at her, disbelievingly.

She gives an innocent smile in return. After a moment, Max manages one as well, and leads them out into the rain. They walk in companionable silence for a stretch, as Victoria's brain works at how to best broach the topics at hand. Finally,

“It has come to my attention that we don't have each other's personal numbers. We might want to fix that, going forward.”

“Uh...huh.” Max says. “Uh, going forward with what, exactly?”

“Excellent question.” Maybe this wasn't going to be so terrible after all. “Not a clue. What are you looking for, Max?'

The other woman tenses and, almost absent-mindedly, Victoria pats her arm. “Something casual? Do you want to make an attempt at a relationship here? Or was I a one-night stand? Maxine Caulfield: Ladykiller, doesn't seem right, but given how effectively you got into my pants the other night, what do I know?”

“You weren't wearing pants,” Max mutters, pointedly looking down. She sneaks a glance, but Victoria's watching, and her eyes dart back to the sidewalk. “Um, look, you know, uh. Oh, hell. How do I...”

She trails off and Victoria gives her a moment to struggle with words. The moment stretches on and Max's struggle shows no signs of ceasing minutes later. So with a heavily-quashed sigh, Victoria changes tack,

“Maybe that was too forward of me. Here I am, holding you captive by the arm in drenching rain, asking you very serious questions. I'm terrible. How about-”

For a moment Victoria feels like shrieking, cold water splashed all over her front, but Max drops the umbrella horizontal. An SUV plows through a massive puddle in the street and the wave of water crashes against the lowered umbrella uselessly. The pair gets away with soaked boots and a fine coat of droplets in their hair and on their shoulders. The umbrella goes back up and Max finishes her sentence for her.

“-we play things by ear?”

_Wow. That was some fucked-up deja-vu._ Victoria blinks and collects herself.

“Nice catch. And yes, that's exactly what I was thinking.”

“Cool. You, uh, said something about phone numbers?” Max asks, digging her phone out of a pants pocket.

“Quite.” Victoria retrieves her phone from her purse, primes it, and taps it against Max's. The phones give a simultaneous bleep and their users authenticate the exchanged numbers. The phones go back and the pair continue down the road. Before the next street, Max clears her throat.

“Ok, so, full disclosure: I probably almost called your workplace like a dozen times before this.”

“I suspected as much. Why didn't you?”

“Um... I thought to myself, how would I feel if someone called _me_ at work about private stuff?”

“Huh.” If you could bet with yourself, Victoria would be down. “Well, that was very considerate of you, Max. Unfortunately, I can't make a similar excuse, I was just working my ass off to clear my weekend.”

“Oh yeah? Uh, wanna, maybe, ah, do something then?”

_Damn, that was stupid, Victoria. Now you're going to look like a coy bitch._ Victoria berates herself?

“Ach, sorry- what? What did I say?”

“Ach?” Max asks, giggling girlishly. Her throat grinds through the harshness of the syllable without skill. “When did you turn Scottish?”

“It's from my _German_ , you judgemental _loon_ , and I picked it up from my ex-husband's grandmother. She was a stiff, uppity hag, so of course we got on famously.”

“Yeah, ok, I could see that.”

“ _Anyways_ ,” Victoria growls, trying to make it lighthearted, “I actually cleared my weekend for someone else, sorry. Turn here.”

* * *

Max blinks, but follows her instructions, taking them onto a side road with a row of parked cars. She feels a bit put out, but these things happen. She tells herself that Victoria probably made these plans long before their, ah, association. She was just being over-eager. Yeah, sure, that works, that makes sense.

A window rolls down in a car Max would have vaguely recognized as Victoria's even before the woman tsk'd.

“Maribelle! I swear to god, if you get the seats wet-!”

A blue-dyed head pokes out and yells back, “They're friggin' _leather_ , Mom, who cares? I'm bored, can we get going already?”

What.

Victoria detaches herself and storms around to the other side of the car, opening it and only pausing to call back to Max, “As you can see, I have my hands full at the moment, but feel free to text me tonight! Ta, Maxine.”

What.

* * *

Victoria slams the door shut and pointedly holds down the passenger window button until the rain is shut out, all the while holding her daughter's stare. Still holding the button down and not breaking the staring contest, she tells the car,

“Home, please.”

The contest goes on, even as the car pulls out and leaves a thoroughly bewildered Max on the pavement. Streets go past and it’s only after a bump jostles them that Victoria's face shows even the slightest hint of cracking. That's enough to cause her daughter's face to crack as well, but she has much less experience in shutting down external tells of emotion and the whole facade comes down in a giggle fit.

“Yes!” Victoria hisses gleefully, drumming her palms off the steering wheel.

“Dammit, that wasn't fair!”

“We both hit that at the same time, Belle, fair doesn't even enter into it.”

“Oh boo,” the girl drones, mockingly.

“Alright, as I told Max, I've cleared the entire weekend. What do you want to do?”

“Iunno. Who's Max? I mean, I'm guessing that's your friend back there, but you two seemed close and I've literally never seen her before.”

“We're old friends from school. She's back in town and we hoo- met up again a few days back.”

“Wait, were you about to say you _hooked up_? Mom?!”

“Oh my god, no we didn't-”

“Oh my god, you totally did! You can't lie to me. And- oh my god, you're using me again to put off your stupid ‘suitors’!”

“What? No, no Max is _definitely_ not a suitor.”

Maribelle narrows her eyes as she takes in her mother's earnest expression.

“Huh. Not a suitor huh? Then what did you- wait, you didn't deny that you used me to put her off.”

“Welllll, I wouldn't call it putting her off, necessarily...” Victoria's voice took on a sing-song quality and a smile like a cat caught in the cream slowly spread across her face. “But maybe I did just want to throw her for a loop a little.”

“You are a terrible human being, Mom,” Maribelle deadpans.

“I am, I really am,” Victoria giggles gleefully, and after a moment her daughter joins in.

Streets later, Victoria straightens and schools her features into a more serious mask. “Now, since you haven't any real desires for the weekend, could I bother you to help me with a Lightroom extension?”

“What, like, configuring one? You can't do that on your own?”

“No, it's an old third-party plugin from years ago, from before I stopped doing serious photography. It doesn't seem to work with newer versions so I thought I could recompile the original code, but long story short the hooks are different and my Python is-”

“Really, really bad. Gotcha. Yeah sure, I can take a look at it. Shouldn't take _too_ long. And afterwards there _is_ a movie I wanna show you...”

“Cool. We can sort out tomorrow, tomorrow.”

* * *

_What._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last post until after that time of year.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> }:D


	7. Fifty First Dates No One Needs to See

“You present me with a problem, Max.”

“What’s that?”

“First dates are generally at coffee shops, right? But somehow I don’t think you want to be spending any more time around that aroma than absolutely necessary.”

“Well… it’s not that bad, but thanks for the sentiment.”

“And we’ve already _done_ the go-out-for-drinks date.”

“I guess that just leaves the movies then. I mean, if you’re dead set on being traditional.”

“These things are traditional for a reason, Maxine-”

“Max.”

“ _Maxine_. By my count I still have many a ‘Tori’ in credit.”

“...”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. Also, why ‘Tori’ of all the ridiculous names?”

“...thought it sounded pretty.”

“That’s it? And here I thought I’d get something like ‘it’s Japanese for bird’ and I remind you of one or something.”

“...did you seriously google Tori?”

“... _As I was saying_ , these things are traditional for a reason, namely that they let people feel each other out, make conversation, et cetera, et cetera. Which is why a movie is out.”

“You totally googled your own pet-name.”

“Irregardless of what was googled, would you like to go out to dinner with me, Max?”

* * *

Two women sit on a sidewalk, legs splayed out. The air is heavy with the frigid humidity of late autumn rains. The smaller one appears to be wearing the larger one’s coat, judging by the bagginess of it and the length of the sleeves. The larger one appears to be wearing the remains of a fettuccine dish, judging by the sauce all over her head and the breadth of the noodles. They both stare silently into the street while the restaurant descends into chaos behind them. 

A tongue darts out and Max licks some sauce from her cheek. “Well. It’s good sauce.”

Slowly, Victoria turns to stare at the spectacle of the noodle-covered woman. Then, with one hesitant finger, she swipes some sauce off her counterpart’s face and tastes it herself.

“Mm.”

They go back to staring into the night.

“Tori, what on earth made you-”

“Nope.”

“But the-”

“Not talking about this.”

“His cumberbund though!”

“Not my problem.”

“You didn’t have to-”

“Wow, still not talking about this.”

A crash from behind them and Max jumps in a full-body twitch as a wine bottle sails through the air, bouncing once, twice, but miraculously staying whole, uncracked. The pair stare back through the window at the unfolding brawl, the spinning chandelier and howling parrots. Victoria picks up the bottle and, in a lithe, elegant motion, gets her feet under her and comes smoothly to her feet. A hand is extended and Max accepts it, very surprised at the strength with which Victoria hauls her to her feet.

“I suppose I should apologize-”

“Hey look, my turn to say nope.”

“But the-”

“Nah, come on, enough of this. Let’s get out of here with the wine before someone gets our description.”

“Fair enough. Where to?”

“Uh, without being too presumptuous, my place isn’t too far from here. I probably can’t manage something like what I’m wearing, but I _can_ cook spaghetti.”

Victoria arches a single eyebrow as they hurry away, “I hope you don’t think a spaghetti dinner is enough to get me out of this dress.”

“No, and here I am without a three hundred bottle of scotch to help matters along.”

That gets her a slap on the arm, which Victoria promptly regrets as her hand comes away sticky. She looks about for something to wipe it on, when something warm and wet engulfs two of her fingers. Her head whips around in shock to find Max leaning down, sucking on her fingers. Victoria Chase is not one to go red easily, but this-!

She yanks her hand back and hisses to Max,

“What are you _doing_?”

“Hey. It’s good sauce.”

“This is _totally_ inappropriate!!”

* * *

“Tori, don’t take this the wrong way-”

“I am _so sorry_ -”

“No, no, stop. I spooked for absolutely no reason, it’s not your fault-”

“I still stuck my head into your-”

“At least it wasn’t the shower itself. Now, take that shaker of oregano and dump some in.”

“Ok… how… much?”

“Wow, ok, you really aren’t that great at cooking are you. Go until I say stop… annnnd stop.”

Max is holding a kitchen towel of ice to her head while Victoria putters nervously around the stove, poking and stirring spaghetti sauce with a chipped and cracked wooden spoon. The actual pasta is on full boil on another burner and Max is keeping an eye on it, lest something else go wrong tonight. 

“Yeah, ok, just leave it for a bit, turn the heat down, we’ll have something halfways tasty when the spaghetti is done.” 

Victoria does so, and has the presence of mind to cover the saucepan with its lid before back off and crossing her hands in front of her. She refuses to meet Max’s eyes, which is all kinds of cute, but that isn’t going to last and Max knows it.

“So what was I not supposed to take the wrong way?”

“Ah, right. So as, um… weird? as this night has been- It’s been fun! But kind of weird…”

Victoria groans and brings a hand to her eyes.

“No, come on, take that down.” Max closes the distance and takes a hold of the hand shielding the blonde’s eyes. Victoria lets her and the taller woman laces their fingers together. 

“Now, as I was saying… how about I handle the second date?”

“Oh thank god.” Victoria’s breath leaves her in a rush.

“What, thought I was just going to call the whole mess off? Please.” Max gives the hand a squeeze and releases it. “I’ve had much worse than this, in worse conditions.”

“I will do the courteous thing and leave it at that.”

“Victoria Chase can always be relied upon to do the courteous thing, after all.”

“Is that sarcasm, Caulfield?”

“Yes. In large doses.”

“Well,” Victoria reaches up and dusts invisible lint off Max’s shoulders. “I’m not opposed to a little smack talk, but take care you don’t lose that innocent sheen of yours.”

Max panickedly looks at her bare arms, turning them over and examining them. “I have a sheen? Didn’t I scrub it all off in the shower? Oh wait, I lost that a long, long time ago.”

“Yes, keep alluding to your mysterious past. One way or another I’ll get your story out of you, regardless of how this all plays out.”

 _Yeah,_ thinks Max her stomach threatening to sink in spite of how well everything is going. _I’m getting that feeling too, unfortunately._

* * *

Victoria leaves Max’s small apartment by the front door, the creaking steps behind her easing and settling in the chill night. There’s a happy buzz all about her head, something she hasn’t felt in ages. Dinner was unremarkable aside from the fact that it was just about the only thing she hadn’t managed to ruin of the night and the liberated bottle of wine capped it nicely. Max refused to turn on the heat, though, an excuse that Victoria was sure was just a plot to get her under the same blanket as the other woman.

A glance at her phone informs her that her car is still a few blocks away, trying to navigate the narrows streets of Max’s neighbourhood. She shifts from foot to foot, glad of the dwindling heat imparted to her by the other woman’s goodbye kiss. She could kick herself for surprising her in the shower now. She bites a lip and is reminded of heat flushing through her, the taste of another, and not-bad spaghetti. You’d think after nearly forty years, she’d have learned to cook.

* * *

A memory, recent:

“So, are you like a masked vigilante in your off-time too?”

“I'm sorry, that non sequitur was too much for me to follow. Come again?”

“I mean, first a married woman, then a mother... I'm just trying to figure out what the next surprise you're going to hit me with is.”

“And a masked vigilante somehow rates the same as finding out I'm a mother?”

“Um, yes?”

“I wish you wouldn't make it sound like it was so self-evident.”

“Look, Tori, I'm sorry, but on what planet does your public demeanour suggest 'motherly instincts'?”

“What on earth makes you think my private demeanour is any different?”

“...you lost me.”

A sigh. A shift under covers closer into the body of warmth curled up beside. A sip of wine.

“I'm just not a very good mother.”

“Oh come on, Tori, you're obviously making time for her, you can't...”

“I'm _making up_ for time.”

Silence. Another sip of wine. A refreshed glass. An arm goes across small, hunched shoulders. She will tell in her own time. It's a long time. Legs shift under a rough blanket, intertwine. There's support.

Finally,

“Maribelle was a sore point for me and Jacob. I was already breaking... we were already breaking down before we had her. We were idiot kids, so sure good jobs and bright futures meant that was a good time to have a child. Well, Jacob was, at least. I loved him enough to believe in him, if not the idea.”

A long swallow.

“Getting pregnant just accelerated our growing differences. I don't know if it was the hormones or extant existential grief, but a part of me knew by the time I actually had Maribelle, that I couldn't raise her. I ground through ten months of breastfeeding until she was taking solid food and then I... ran.”

A finished glass. A heart, aching in sympathy, a heart that knows what it is to run from a life.

“Oh, Victoria... it must have been so hard.”

“That's just it, Max. It wasn't. Maybe coming to the decision was, but it felt like everything in my life was pushing me to this, this _only_ exit that when I finally took it... finally packed my bags and told Jacob what I was doing... wiping away his tears was harder than walking out.”

Silence. A hand, raised to comb through hair, pushed away firmly.

“So yes, I'm a terrible person, a terrible mother and I've been spending the past five or six years trying to make up for it.”

“Five or six?”

“You only saw her for a brief moment, Max, but how old do you think Maribelle is?”

“Um... ten to twelve?”

“Heh. She'd thank you not to say that. She's thirteen.”

Calculations are done and a breath sucked in.

“I first saw my daughter again when she turned seven, and was only because-”

A high, disbelieving laugh.

“-Jacob was more devious than I gave him credit for. He'd been framing the money I sent them as 'look what Mommy bought' the whole time. A finally my headstrong daughter had had enough and demanded to see me.”

“I can't imagine where she got that from.”

“Shush. But she demanded it in writing, very civilly written, and sent to my offices by registered mail. You see,” a small form shifts around, “she's something of a polymath, and a genius to boot. So when I got this... document, just short of a court order to attend her birthday party, I was more or less compelled to.”

A slender arm reaches for a bottle. “For curiosity's sake, if nothing else.”

“If nothing else?”

“Hmm, are you trying to wring some manner of humanity out of me, Max? Some hint of parental ability?”

A smile and eyes lidded coyly before a mask of stone slams down.

“Too bad. Any motherly instincts I developed have been since then. I went because I was intrigued and guilty, not because I loved her.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Anyways, since then, the little brat has managed to mould me into 'the cool mom' and I've taken a liking to the role.”

A swallow from the bottle.

“But yes, I cheated my way through the hard parts and ran from my problems. Hope that doesn't ruin your image of me too much, dear Maxine.”

“Well, I'm sure you had your reasons. I didn't walk in your shoes, Tori, I can't judge you.” 

Victoria's face screws up as it tries to register a scowl, while her actual feelings are ones of overwhelming gratitude. Max notices, takes the look for something else and pointedly takes the bottle away. The blonde makes some noises of protest, following the thing and pretends not to notice that her path leads to her being draped over the other woman. She lies there for a moment and then rolls to look up at her.

Max's throat seizes, looking down into blue eyes and a face perfectly framed by scattered blonde hair. She'd take a picture, were there a working camera nearby. Victoria stares at her for a long moment, opens her mouth to speak, and closes it. It remains shut.

“...what?” Max finally asks.

“I am just shocked that I managed that entire story. You are maybe the fourth person who's heard it.”

“Eh, you've probably told more than-”

“No, I'm quite serious. My parents don't even know the whole of it.”

Max blinks, surprised.

“I find myself trusting you for no good reason, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.”

“Huh,” says Max. “That's probably a wise decision, all told. Take some time and try to figure it out.”

It is Victoria's turn to be surprised, sitting up and turning to face her counterpart. “Not a sentiment I was expecting from you.”

“Mmm. Well, life changes us all. You learn some hard lessons along the way. But if you want a less gritty Max...”

She leans in, past Victoria's parted lips, brushing a kiss against high cheekbones and whispering into her ear,

“Keep some secrets, Tori. I want to drag them out of you, slowly, over time. I want to _earn_ those hidden pieces of you, and I want to win access to your most secret parts.”

* * *

Victoria wonders exactly how many notches are in the headboard of Max’s bed, because _goddamn _.__

* * *

The worst part of the trip is hoping for good weather. The forecast was calling the day “the last warm day of the year,” but even so, Max made sure they packed proper coats. Still, she didn’t think that the real effect of the location would be appreciated by a wet and shivering Victoria. So it is with some faint hope that Max picks up the jeep in the cold light of a clear morning. When she pulls up front of Victoria’s place, the other woman hands her a cup of coffee and an aside.

“I still can’t believe you’re getting me up this early for hiking.”

“Hey, you’re the exercise nut. I do this for the view.”

“And I exercise for my figure, not for the joy of it.”

“Well, I thank you for it all the same.”

Victoria looks like she’s could smack the driver, if it weren’t for the coffee. Instead she changes tacks.

“I cannot believe you found a place to rent a beater like this.”

“Who says I rented it?”

That gets Max a stare and she gives Victoria a quick glance and smirk in return. 

“I cannot believe you would buy a car just for a date.”

“What, think I can’t afford it?”

“No, that you’d be that ostentatious.”

“Well, you’d be wrong on both counts. I _am_ one of the most sought after photographers in the world, Tori. I have been known to do jobs for pay.”

“Besides serve coffee, you mean.”

A flashed grin. “Besides serve coffee.”

“Well. I hope you didn’t pay too much for it. And certainly not on my account.”

“Nah. Bought it off my Dad. Hell, he wanted to give it to me. It was all I could do to get him to take _something_ for it.”

Another stare, this one flatter, slightly irritated. “You do just so love leaving me twisting in the wind, don’t you, Maxine.”

“Fair is fair.”

“Oh really? When the hell do I leave you twisting in the wind?”

“Every time you leave.”

It takes a lot of Max’s control to keep her eyes forward, because she’s pretty proud of that one and really, really wants to see Victoria’s reaction to it.

* * *

Victoria’s reaction is one of wide eyes, and heating cheeks, a stammer quashed in favour of silence. It’s a long while before she can trust herself to say anything, spending much of the ride staring at Max’s bare face, counting freckles and tracing the faint lines of age.

* * *

Mount Hood National Forest is a sprawling thing with hundreds of different ecologies across almost five thousand square miles. But the great thing about it from Max’s perspective is how accessible it is. She has no idea how good Victoria is at hiking, but she doesn’t need to worry about that. An hour outside Portland and twenty minutes of walking later, there’s nothing but them and nature.

Rich green trees shade them from a sun still rising high into the sky and somewhere nearby a stream burbles. The trail beneath them is well-trod, if rough, but it presents no trouble to Max, and certainly no trouble to the more athletic Victoria. Half an hour later, Max is getting winded, but Victoria shows no signs of exertion aside from a sheen of sweat as they crest the first mount. The park’s titular peak is still far off in the distance, but it’s not like that’s where they’re headed for this day trip.

“Good lord, that’s a view alright,” mutters Victoria, taking out a camera and snapping a few shots of the verdant vista arrayed below them. 

“Yeah. You can barely even see Rhododendron down there,” Max says, pointing out the small town they had breakfast in. 

“Mm. Shall we? Or does the aging globetrotter need a break?” Victoria extends a hand and a smile Max would go so far as to call sassy.

“Hey, I’m made for running, not this vertical crap.”

“It’s hardly vertical, Maxine. Barely an incline. Besides, if you’re so out of shape, why did you choose this?”

“You’ll see. And I’m not out of shape.”

* * *

An hour and a half later, Max has hit her stride, long legs eating up the paces while Victoria struggles behind her. The dirt has turned to rock as they near the summit of this particular peak and the trees have long since thinned. Victoria’s eyes have been focused on Max’s back for a while now, and a mean little part of her wishes there was more to look at of the gangly woman’s backside. Still, when the wind lifts her hair, and the sun catches it just right, silver sparkles in the dun brown and Victoria wants to catch up just to run her fingers through it.

“Come on Tori, just a little further.”

“Yes, yes, I’m not a cripple Caulfield. Christ, where do you get this energy?”

“Deep reserves. I could probably do this for another…” Max trails off, and stops moving forward, feet slowing until she stands still.

“Quite a dramatic pause there, Max. Or are you just waiting for me to catch up?”

Max shakes it whatever it is off, and Victoria lowers the hand she was going to place on her shoulder. “Ha, yeah, that. See that rockface? Get to the top of there and this’ll all be worth it.”

“Lead on, then,” Victoria says, watching Max try to hide her troubles.

* * *

“I take it back. Now, _that’s_ a view.”

Victoria doesn’t even bother to take up her camera while she stares out into the green and blue surrounding them on all sides. She was probably so tired and fixated on the trail on the way up she missed the way the world fell away from them. Max thinks, somewhat meanly, that might have been for the best, given this reaction. Another reason no one should need to have her endurance, especially for anything this beautiful. 

The forest stretches out for seeming ever all around them, meeting the clear blue of the horizon. Closer, but still far off enough to seem small, Mount Hood breaks up the seeming regular rolling of the range. Closer still, liquid silver glints and Max touches Victoria’s elbow to point out Ramona Falls. Finally the blonde’s camera comes up and Victoria does her thing. Max finds a rock to park her butt on and watches the other woman work, delighting in the focus and quiet happiness she’s sparked in her counterpart.

After a few minutes, in which Victoria has taken a full three hundred and sixty degrees of photographs, she stops and looks at Max.

“Hang on, why aren’t you snapping away?”

A shrug.

“I told you, I’m on break. Also, I’ve been up here.”

“Oh? Take many women up here, Caulfield?”

“Hehe, well, not _here_ exactly.”

“What?”

“What? It’s a big park. I don’t think I was even in this _state_ at the time. And it was a long time ago. And-”

“Oh shut up, I’m not mad at you, you incredible goof. You’ve long since proven you’re adept with women.”

“Well,” Max says, blushing slightly and scratching her head sheepishly. “Last time I was here I sure wasn’t.”

“Oho? Was she the one who taught you all your mad romancing skills?”

“Ha! Hell no. I might have gotten some confidence out of that mess, but Lara sure as hell didn’t teach me anything.”

“Lara? Lara who?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Max mutters, already regretting the slip.

“Oh, so I know of-” Victoria freezes, turning to Max, her mouth working noiselessly. The look on her face would be hilarious, if Max wasn’t so concerned with how much she is regretting that particular slip. She would be a terrible spy, in reality.

“No way. No absolute fucking way.”

“Ah, fuck.”

“You? You and-? Holy fuck.”

“I am never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Yeah, hmm, no. No, you’re not. How the hell did-”

“Nope, not getting into this. Ladies, kissing and telling and all that.”

“Oh come on!” Victoria sidles up next to Max on the rock. “You cannot lead with that and-”

“I didn’t lead with anything! It was a slip! A verbal fuckup!”

* * *

The hike back to the car is interminable, with Victoria going on and on and-

* * *

“Oh my god, it feels good to get those off.”

“You are exposing my home to a biohazard with those socks, Caulfield.”

Victoria scrunches her nose in disdain at the hideous, oft-patched olive socks. Oh, they look very warm and comfy, but she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them, even if they are for hiking. And Victoria absolutely does not want to get any closer to them.

“Hey, you were the one to suggest we come up here. Not my problem if you didn’t think that through.”

“Yes, well, ditch them and rinse your feet in the shower.”

Max gives a groan, “Oh, Tori, if I get into your shower I am not getting out without a full rinse.”

“Suit yourself. The white towels are for guests.”

Max narrows her eyes. “You know, you never did mention what your brilliant post-hike plan was.”

“No, I didn’t, did I? Now just get those shoes off and have something done with those feet by the time I get changed.”

“Not gonna rinse your own?”

“Of course not. I sweat sundrops and rainbows.”

Max gives a soft laugh and leaves for the washroom, while Victoria makes for the bedroom and begins stripping down, dropping clothes into a hamper. The peeling involved has her making a note to tip the maid this week. A quick dig through a much-neglected drawer and Victoria has to choose between two swimsuits. It is dark now so the florals might be wasted, but the area is well-lit. She hears the shower cut out and settles on the dark blue, slipping on both halves of the bikini and fussing with the straps as she enters the hallway. She’s in time to intercept Max, just leaving the washroom. Putting on a mock scowl she goes for the confused woman’s lapels.

“Now that just won’t do, come on, out of those,” she growls, opening up max’s ridiculous plaid shirt. Could you _get_ anymore stereotypical, Caulfield.

“Uh, not that I’m complaining about you trying to get me out of my clothes, but… are we going swimming?”

“Not quite. A sports bra? Ehn, I suppose it’s for the best. Come on, hurry it up.”

While Max steps out of her pants and finishes taking off her shirt, Victoria swoops up a pass and keys. Turning around, she notices Max’s boxers and gives her a disappointed look before breezing out into the penthouse’s lobby and heading for the stairs. Max follows, somewhat bemused and self-conscious. In truth, Victoria had to stop herself from staring at the lean body. Max is by no means ripped, but the day’s exertions have left her… defined.

They take the stairs up and a wave of the keycard gets them out onto the roof. In a slow glow, lights come on and and reveal the rooftop common area, complete with jacuzzi that Victoria triggered from her phone on the way home. The bubbling water steams in the chill night air and Victoria hurries towards it, dipping a toe and shivering in delight. Oh yes, this is going to be one of her better ideas.

“A hot tub? Alright, fair enough. That’s a pretty good idea after today.”

Victoria looks over her shoulder at Max as she lowers herself into the waters. “Isn’t -ah! Isn’t it?”

The sharp cry gets a thick swallow from Max, who hurries herself. As she slips into the hot water, hissing at its heat, Victoria catches sight of her back, of lines of black and brown ink, and shapes in blue that seems to almost dance in the dim light of the jacuzzi. She almost reaches out to touch it, but she lets the taller woman finish easing into the water, whereafter she’s more conscious of Max’s near-naked nearness.

She pushes herself over into Max’s space and the other woman accepts her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close. In that moment Victoria’s head spins in warm contentedness and she rests her head against Max’s collarbone, heaving out a sigh that sets goosebumps a-prickling across what skin is above water.

They stay like that for a while, before Max’s extended hand begins tracing shapes along Victoria’s upper arm. The light touch sends little tremors of delicious electricity along Victoria’s nerves and she smiles, making a small sound into Max’s neck. She looks up with heavily lidded eyes in time to see Max try to sneak out her tongue to wet her lips. The blonde moves a hand onto Max’s knee and gives it a squeeze, tilting her chin up.

Max takes the cue, her other hand coming around to cup Victoria’s cheek, her mouth descending, hot and desirous. They kiss and Victoria practically melts in the heat of it. This, this is what she’s wanted. Max too, by the way her tongue teases forward, questing for more. Victoria lets her teeth graze it as she pulls away, as much as she just want to mount the other woman and kiss the life from her.

“Time for that later,” she breathes huskily, pushing away and floating to the other side of the jacuzzi. Max looks so conflicted, so needy, it’s all Victoria can do to stay where she is. Her foot hooks behind a gangly leg and raises it, taking up Max’s own foot into her hands. The confusion on Max’s face deepens right up to the point where Victoria presses her thumbs into her sole, at which point the brunnette arches and lets out an absolutely filthy groan.

“LIke that, do you?” purrs Victoria.

“Oh, _fuck_ that’s good. Especially after today, _oh fuck_ ,” her voice rises and her shoulders tense.

“Relax, just let it through. And if it hurts, I guarantee it will only feel better afterwards.”

“Guess, _ah_ , that’s why you had me, _fuck, Tori!_ wash. Ohhhhh...”

Her cat-in-the-cream smile spreads across Victoria’s face as she reduces Max to a gasping, twitching puddle. The only respite she gives is moving the massage up her leg, briefly, kneading the skin and noting its smoothness. Max certainly had been expecting _something_ today. Well. It isn’t in Victoria’s nature to deny her such things. That’s a lie, but in this case, where she wanted the same thing…

She switches to the other foot, wringing a few more delightful sounds out of Caulfield before floating over to the panting woman. She waits for Max’s eyes to open and land on her before,

“May I do your back?”

“After that? You can do whatever you like.” Cat-in-the-cream again. 

“Kneel here in the middle, I think that will put you in the right position for me.”

“And have me kneeling at your feet?”

“Where you belong, of course.”

Max gives a knowing smirk and leaves her perch to kneel where Victoria indicates while Victoria tries to slip past her to claim her seat. As she does, Max darts down and steals a biting kiss from her, eyes twinkling. And then their positions are reversed, Max turning around to present her back. The roiling water obscures the art on it, and Victoria bites her lip, summoning her courage.

“This will likely work better if you take off your bra.”

A pause. “What if someone comes up?”

“They can’t. This is the only key that works at this time of night.”

Another pause, hesitation palpable in the air. Then Max stands, stripping the bra up and over her head, and revealing the tattoo covering her back.

“Stop,” says Victoria, touching the art in the center of Max’s back. A shiver travels down her spine at the sight of it.

A massive deer skull stares back at her, rendered in black and brown inks down the center and flanks of Max’s back. The bone is so richly detailed, it feels like it’s rising from the woman’s back. Black eye sockets appear to have real depth, like holes opening up in Max’s flesh. There are hairline fractures everywhere, cracking out from edges like they would in nature.. It’s a doe, Victoria realizes, and those aren’t horns coming from its head. Cords of twine appear from behind the skull and are pinned in jagged lines to Max’s back with inked tacks, forming an image of horns. The twine separates at the tacks into the “antlers” and there are spots where the little fibers that make it up can be seen. Oh, and the tacks, _the tacks_. where they pin the twine, they look like they are actually piercing Max’s flesh, fading as if being viewed through skin as they penetrate. 

And between the points of the horns, blue butterflies dance. Whoever the artist was absolutely knew what they were doing, because they are so incongruous, so light and free, they almost do not belong on this art piece. But one peeks out from behind a twine antler, clearly part of the construction of the work. It’s an utterly haunting image and Victoria swears she can feel the weight of the doe’s dead gaze on her.

“Th-this is the most intricate way of saying “hey, can I see your tattoo’ I’ve ever heard.”

It’s only then that Victoria realizes she’s stood too and is tracing the line of twine with fingers. The air is chill against her body and she swears, sitting back into the hot tub. 

“Come on, sit. You’ll freeze up there.”

“Hey, you’re the one giving orders here.”

“And I’m ordering you to get back into the hot water.”

Max does so and immediately Victoria sets to work massaging her shoulders, watching the glimmers of blue dance in the water below. The brunette relaxes into her grasp and soon enough Max’s knots are unraveling.

“What did you think?”

Victoria is quiet, still trying to process the dark image. Then,

“Not what I was expecting, at all. Beautiful, in a haunting, mournful way.” A pause. “What does it mean? Or, you know...”

Silence. Victoria keeps at her work, fighting against the physically rising tension in Max’s body. She tries to channel support and understanding through her hands, into the fibers of Max’s being. She tries to draw the fear and anxiety out of the woman, tries to show her that she can be trusted. She surprises herself with the revelation that she really does want to be trusted, to be held in regard by Max, a part of-

“I was in love with Chloe Price. Chloe Price was in love with Rachel Amber. And together we tried to find her.”

Victoria almost stops working at Max’s shoulders to listen, but forces herself to continue. “And all the while we were looking for her, this deer kept appearing. By- by the end of it, I was sure it was Rachel Amber’s spirit, watching over us. I knew she was dead. It was only later that Chloe accepted- no… was confronted with the truth of it.”

“That sleaze Jefferson…”

“Nathan Prescott, actually.” Max’s voice is matter-of-fact, but Victoria can hear, feel the conflict in her.

“Oh god, that day in the bathroom-”

“Yes.”

Her hands stop, and Victoria rests them on Max’s shoulders. Then she slides down into the center and wraps her arms around Max’s middle, pressing her forehead to the back of Max’s head as her legs go on either side of hers. The taller woman continues.

“When Nathan- when Nathan killed Chloe, the last thing I saw before the gunshot was this tiny blue butterfly. And then- no, that’s why-”

Her voice hitches, and Max has to stop. Victoria’s arms tighten around her waist. A deep breath in, out.

“Anyways. I carry them both with me now, along with the work we did to avenge all the other girls.”

“Christ, Max…”

Victoria has no idea how to proceed. She is straight up terrible at this. She should never have done this, she’s ruined a perfectly good date, an _excellent_ and fucking look at her now, she’s thinking of herself when that’s the last thing that should be on her mind with this, this _incredible_ woman here on the verge of-

“Thanks, Victoria.”

Max leans back into her, slouching and twisting so that her head can rest back against Victoria’s bicep and she can look up at her. 

“Don’t worry. I’ve been carrying this for twenty years. I’m good with it. Enough people ask me about the tattoo that I’ve told the story, or at least something that looks like it, plenty of times.”

“Sorry, I just- I ruined-”

“Ruined what? Hey, come here,” Max snorts, arm coming up and around to caress Victoria’s cheek, backs of knuckles brushing wetly against the high bones. A turning of a wrist and she pulls her down into a soft, earnest kiss. “You made me feel safe enough to tell that story. That’s worth a lot, especially now. You haven’t ruined anything. You made this date even better than I was hoping for.”

And that’s it. She leans up and kisses Victoria who responds eagerly, gratefully. When Max deepens the kiss, Victoria clutches her close, breasts pressing hard into the other woman’s shoulders. Small, pale hands slide up a lean torso to cup small breasts, kneading them with movements more gentle than the earlier massage. When the first groan leaves Max, Victoria’s breath seizes and she has to break the kiss, burying her face in the crook of Max’s neck. 

Brown hair falls away as Max exposes the arc of her neck and Victoria kisses, nibbles hard at it, even as a massage turns into light tweaks of perked nipples. Max responds with noises from between pressed-shut lips and strong hands on Victoria’s thighs, short-cropped nails digging furrows of pain and the promise of pleasure in her pale skin. 

A hand wanders off, down the lean, gasping front of Max’s body and slipping under the waistband of her boxers. Hips buck forward in eagerness and Max’s gaze comes around, fiery with need and passion. Her hand finds a hold in Victoria’s hair, bunching tightly as she pulls her down for more of her breath, life and tongue. Victoria’s fingers slide through the fine hair beneath Max’s boxers and find her heat. A circle of a nub and Max gives a cry into Victoria’s mouth and then slender fingers dive into slickness and Max is grinding against her hand, panting, whispering obscenities and demanding more. 

Victoria is free with more, playing the slender woman like a taut instrument, responding to every “there” or “harder” with exactly what Max wants until her small cries and moans crack the icy night air with their intensity and volume. And then, at last, Max’s legs clamp around Victoria’s hand and her body shudders blissfully while her mouth opens in a silent scream, throat working but no sound coming out. Victoria pressed kisses to that corded pillar, holding her lover as her orgasm subsides, whispering promises of the rest of the night.


	8. "She's been to warzones"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _"She asked us, begged us really, not to talk about her. But the people will talk."_  
> 
> 
>   

“Maribelle is asking when she can meet you.”

The Netflix screen asks if they want to see the next queued episode and the cursor flickers constantly on hold as Max quietly hammers the button on Victoria’s phone, her mind racing. On the list of things she is experienced with, dealing with lovers’ children is a new one.

 _That’s because you’re a cradle-robber, Max,_ says that ever-helpful voice.

“Um?”

“That’s what I said.”

The pair go quiet, each picking over the issue in the air between them.

“You don’t have to-”  
“What would we even-”

They cut themselves short and share a short giggle. Max recovers first.

“You first, no wriggling out.”

“But- ugh, fine. You don’t have to meet her. After my initial dumbfoundment that she’d even want to, I told her that I could not speak for you, as you were your own person, et cetera, et cetera, but that I would pass on the interest and that she should not view a denial as rejection, but probably a wish for privacy and-”

“Jesus, Tori, take a breath,” Max laughs softly and buries her face in soft blonde hair. A breath in, taking in the scent of flowers, tropical fruits and… ink? A breath out, feeling the slight shudder as her warmth spills down the other woman’s neck, tickling at her clavicle, her spine.

“I just don’t want things to be awkward. That’s a huge fear of teenagers right? What would we even do?”

“Well, Maribelle has… her own means of dealing with her, ah, varied interests. She likes learning hands-on things and has recently expressed an interest in developing film, so…”

Max draws back, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“And you couldn’t have taught her this because…”

“Oh please, Maxine, before you showed I literally hadn’t touched even _Lightroom_ for like, a decade.”

“Sure, and you’re not meeting my eyes because that Netflix screen is so interesting.”

“Absolutely. But to rebut your unspoken accusation, while I could certainly do a slapdash job of developing film, I would prefer that she learn from a skilled professional.”

“And also leaving the opportunity for me to say yes in a comfortable environment while flattering me.”

“Oh damn, she seems to have discovered my dastardly plan, whatever shall I do?” Victoria leans back, with that damnable smile spreading languidly across her face, before vanishing abruptly. “But honestly Max, if you don’t want to, Maribelle will understand. She’s aware like that.”

“What, aware that I’m only using her mother for sex?”

Victoria sputters, tries to form a comeback, but Max’s lips press against hers, curling up into a smile of their own.

“Relax. Your dastardly plan worked. But can we set up a dar-developing room at one of your places?”

* * *

“I don’t see why I couldn’t just meet you both at the studio.”

“Pardon me for assuming you’d want a chance to brief her before starting on the practical bits.”

“Fair, but… a gunnery range?”

“I told you I was ‘the cool mom,’ right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“It just so happens that one of the physical things Maribelle enjoys is guns. And so long as all legalities are followed, I see no harm in allowing her access to them in a controlled environment. Jacob and I are in agreement that she won’t own one until she can buy one for herself, at which point she will either be sufficiently educated not to use one unless absolutely necessary or be bored of them.”

“That’s… logical, I guess.” Max shifts uncomfortably in the seat. “We’re just picking her up, so I’ll hang tight here.”

“Suit yourself,” breezes Victoria, stepping out and shutting the door.

* * *

_Idiot,_ thinks Victoria, _You should have asked if this was going to be a problem. She’s been to warzones, for God’s sake._

Victoria watches with crossed arms as her daughter finishes putting several rounds of simunition into the plastic target down range. The handgun looks enormous in her hands, but given the pieces some of the men in this place are lugging, she’s aware that it’s relatively small. Maribelle had been excited to finally get a chance at the little death machines, as Victoria had specified that she learn “useful” weapons first, like hunting rifles and shotguns. Her trainer had agreed with nary a blink and now stands well behind the young woman, watching approvingly.

Her eyes narrowing, Victoria tries to make out the shots. Thankfully, the ridiculous things marked the target with blue splotches of whatever, so she could see that all of her daughter’s shots had managed to land within the circle. Better than she could have managed, but markedly worse than her work with rifles. The mother watches as her daughter ejects the magazine and begins disassembly, arguably the part that interests the blue-haired girl the most. Again, not as speedy or efficient as with a rifle, but this time the reason is obvious as she examines each moving part as her instructor points them out and quizzes her. The portly woman had spread a selection before her and was presumably explaining them. Earlier she’d apologized that this was taking so long, as the range was overbooked with classes.

Victoria doesn’t mind, outside the fact that she’s leaving Max in the car, quite rudely. As she goes to text her an update though, a figure comes down the stairs, donning ear protectors. Surprised, Victoria puts her phone away and waves Max over. The other woman nods and moves her way, threading through the small viewing gallery.

“Sorry about this, apparently things were overbooked.”

“No kidding,” Max says, looking at the people waiting to take turns. “Lots of kids.”

“A community class, if you’ll believe it.”

“Of this country? I’ll believe anything.”

Her lip smarts from where she’s been biting it, and Victoria wants to stop, almost convinced that Max is okay with all this. But there’s a tenseness in her shoulders and her legs are under her, as if ready to bolt. Considering her usual slouch, it’s telling. Finally, Victoria manages,

“Hey, if you’re not comfortable here, we can-”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Max takes in a breath and lets it out in a whoosh. “Did some research in the car about the place, noticed what they use for training uses a different primer so I didn’t think I’d wig out.”

She turns to Victoria, a wry smile on her face, “The smell’s the worst part. With protectors on, this almost sounds like a movie.”

Still uncertain, Victoria tries to return the smile. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“Pretty sure. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Thanks.” A squeezed hand, fingers brushing over knuckles. “It might not mean much to her, but she’ll notice.”

They watch the young woman go through the other handguns and Max seems to relax, her hand warm and dry in Victoria’s. When Maribelle turns to call her mother down, she sees the other woman and grins, waving. Max quirks a small smile and waves back.

“Shall we?”

While Victoria smiles and nods at the trainer’s gushing report, she notices Max mirror her, smiling and nodding as Maribelle walks her through each of the guns. She looks genuinely at ease, even as the blue-haired girl assembles a gun before her. Thank god this isn’t the disaster she’d thought it’d be.

And then,

“Hey, can you shoot? Ms. Halloway, could Max shoot a few rounds?”

_Goddammit Maribelle._

“Not without a permit or being enrolled in a course here, sorry dear.”

_Oh thank god._

“Actually, I, uh, I have a disp from the…” Max trails off, the accidental volunteering of information striking her as a bad idea, even as it leaves her mouth and the trainer’s eyes widen.

“Oh, may I see it?”

 _No, you may- oh goddammit Max._ Victoria wants to bury her face in her palm as Max awkwardly takes out her wallet and shows a gleaming, holograph laden piece of ID. The trainer and her daughter stare as the Seal of the United States flickers into being, rotating above the card. Then it disappears as Max shoves it and her wallet back in her pants.

“Oh please, can you? Can she, Ms. Halloway?”

“I suppose…”

“Ahem.” Her voice clears above the racket of the hall and Victoria stares both of them down forcibly bringing the temperature of the room down several degrees. “I think you’re forgetting to ask someone rather important to this discourse, hmm?”

Maribelle spins and grabs Max’s hands. Her clammy hands, Victoria notes, her mouth drawing a flat line on her face.

“D’you wanna, Max? You’ve got a permit for a reason, right?”

“I… sure,” Max answers.

 _God fucking dammit, am I the only one with sense here?_ The small blonde steps forward and turns Max towards her.

“Are you sure? You absolutely do not-”

“Hey, it’s cool. I’m cool with it. I can do it.”

Victoria does not buy this for an instant. Max won’t meet her eyes, her jaw muscles are bunched and her hands are pressed flat against her thighs, wiping sweat off. She wants to march her l- her par- this woman out of here and strap her into her car and call a goddamned police escort on it up to her apartment. But fuck, Max is her own woman, and she can sympathize with a need to prove herself to some young brat, to measure up in some way. This is Victoria’s own fault and she’’ll just have to deal with the fallout.

“Ugh, fine. Try not to embarrass yourself,” she quips, squeezing Max’s tricep.

Maribelle is almost a blur as she assembles a gun for Max, who finishes wiping her hands on her pants and examines a magazine.

“Light,” she observes.

“Yeah,” responds Ms. Halloway, “Less primer and no metals in the bullet. It won’t travel as far as a real one, but for this range, it’s fine.”

“Sure,” says Max, something like a mask falling over her face. She accepts the assembled gun from Maribelle, flicks various switches and rams the magazine home in a motion so mechanical it had to have been practiced dozens, hundreds of times. Victoria swallows.

Max turns, lines up a shot. The trainer ushers them out of her area, and almost on cue, Max fires.

 _Bang_.

A blue splotch mars empty plastic above the target.

“Ohhh, so clo-” Maribelle’s words are cut off as Max shifts stance. Halloway sucks in a breath, and Maribelle looks at her in confusion. Victoria shivers, almost not recognizing the predatory figure in front of her. She’s seen the focus, turned to other things. But the blank mask and the target and her stance shift that focused gaze into something that whispers murder.

 _Bang-bang_.

 _Bang-bang_.

 _Bang-bang_.

 _Bang-bang_.

Another set of clicks and movements and Max clears the chamber, ejects the magazine and lays everything on the counter. Then, mechanically, she turns to Halloway.

“Where are your washrooms?” the voice that comes out is nothing like Max’s. It’s a sick thing, pained and torturous to listen to. Maribelle flinches from it, trying to reconcile the tone with the blank mask on Max’s face.

“Top of the stairs, to your left.”

Victoria starts to follow, but the trainer cuts her off, whispering under her breath,

“I figure you might wanna talk to your daughter first. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you friend gets any help she needs.”

Then she’s jogging after the long-flown Max, leaving Victoria with a confused and tear-verging Maribelle.

 _I. Am an idiot,_ Victoria thinks, wondering how she is supposed to explain PTSD whose source she doesn’t even understand to her daughter.

* * *

Her throat is raw, her sinuses are running and her mouth writhes with the taste of bile and terror. Her fingers spasm with recoil not felt and her legs twitch while instincts long suppressed scream at her to run, run, _RUN_.

And another dry heave speckles saliva on top of the disgusting soup of last night’s dinner and today’s breakfast, floating in the toilet bowl. Max works her cheek muscles to press more saliva out and spits the mess into the toilet, arms trembling and braced against the stall. She stumbles back, catches herself on the door and manages to make it to the sink without further embarrassment.

Water is the sweetest thing, but she cannot swallow and so she just rinses out her mouth. When she straightens, someone is holding paper towel out to her from a safe distance. Not leaping back is the least she can do for the courtesy.

“Um, thanks.”

“No, thank you. For your service.”

Max’s shakey laugh is absorbed into the paper. She shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m not- I didn’t serve in the army or anything.”

“Oh, sorry. Just that display… well. My bad. Are you alright though?”

“Thought I was. Maybe not, after all. Christ.” She balls up the towel and throws it at the wastebin.

“Look, tell me if it’s none of my business… but we’ve got a list of therapists that you can see, really affordable.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got one. Hell, I’m here based on shit she said. Well, not here as in this range, but- you know what, never mind.”

“Sorry.”

Silence.

A breath in. Out. Back in. Back out. Max closes her eyes and reaches for what calm is inside her, slowly stilling her jittering nerves. A slow groan,

“Alright, I better head back before Tori strangles her kid or herself with guilt.”

“Sure thing, ma’am. But… can I ask? Who taught you to shoot like… well, like that?” The trainer nods her head in the direction of the range.

Max almost doesn’t answer on her way out. But that would be too rude, too rude for a woman trying to help. “The Ukrainian army.”

“The Yukes?! Christ,” something familiar passes over her face, something like recognition. “Hang on, I know you..”

A bitter laugh.

“Most people seem to, unfortunately.”

* * *

Maribelle cries, Max smiles and Victoria manages a stoic mask, but doesn’t let go of Max’s hand all the way back to her place. They skip the dark room set up in Victoria’s offices; there’s always another day. Maribelle feels terrible, says she’s sorry a dozen times and Max shakes her head, patting the blue-haired girl on the head. They’re all piled into the back of Victoria’s car, with Max squooshed into the middle. She has to admit, she can feel the love, even if she’s not clear where it’s coming from, at least from Maribelle.

Over the ruins of a spare polaroid camera that Max is using to explain the way a darkroom works, Maribelle actually tells her why.

“Are you kidding?” she hisses, carefully watching her mother, who is busy trying to order them Thai. “You’re the first, I don’t know, partner? she’s talked about since ditching that asswad Derek.”

“Um, language?” Max points out, uncertainly.

“Pssht. You’re not my mom.” A sly look. “Yet.”

Her eyes go as wide as saucers and Max stutters out some kind of desperate denial.

“Anyways, she actually, like, volunteers information about you? And smiles when she talks about you? Like, holy shit, do you have any idea how fucking nuts she must be about you?”

Max is staring at Victoria, and barely notices the first poke. When Maribelle jams her elbow into her ribs though, she squeaks and snaps her attention back to the table.

“Careful, not-Mom, she’s gonna notice. You don’t want her coming over here and raising a stink do you?”

“You know,” Max drawls quietly, “for a moment I almost thought you were a sweet kid.”

* * *

“Max?”

“Mmn?”

“...never mind.”

“Mmn? Come on, I know that tone, Tori. What’s up?”

“It’s stupid, and not any of my business.”

A body rolls under sheets and an arm wraps around Victoria. She swallows, audibly. A kiss is pressed to the back of her neck.

“Well, I’ll be awake for the next five to ten, if you feel like asking that question.”

Victoria catches a hold of Max’s hand and brings it to her lips for a kiss. But she doesn’t ask the question, and goes to sleep with an image of a target, its center filled with blue dye from perfect double-taps.

* * *

 

_Max… have you ever killed anyone?_

 

* * *

They on the way back from dropping off Maribelle off when it happens, when everything goes to hell.

“So, did I pass?”

“Oh, you tell me, the two of you almost spent more time talking to each other than me.”

“Is that a touch of jealousy I hear?”

“Hardly.” But Victoria pouts all the same. Max takes it as a good sign though. If she were actually upset, there would hardly be a flicker of emotion. Kind of scary, that. But she's in the clear and just loops her arm through the arm of her... lover? Girlfriend? God, when was the last time she had to think about this crap?

“So...” she leads with, figuring at some point they should address it. “Did you, ah, catch what 'Belle was calling me?”

“Good lord, don't tell me she actually lets you use that abomination.”

“Hey, you let me call you Tori. It's my charming ways.”

“I get revenge with Maxine.”

“And she gets revenge with not-Mom.”

Victoria nearly stumbles, missing a step. Max takes the chance to draw her closer, making sure she can't escape, either physically or from this conversation.

“Not-Mom? What the hell is that child thinking?”

“To quote: 'It'll be awesome. I'll have, like, three Mom's: Mom, step-Mom and not-Mom.'”

“Step-?” Victoria bursts out laughing. “Oh that's fine then. If she thinks Jacob is marrying that bimbo any time soon, she can be doubly disappointed by our lack of engagement.”

A sidelong glance, as she suddenly realizes the delicacy of the situation. “That's... not a problem is it? I mean, we've never really spoken about-”

“No,” Max says firmly, squeezing Tori's arm. “No, it's fine and no, we haven't. Wanna?”

“Um.”

“Yeah. That.”

Soft laughter shared between two old hands at the oldest game, still finding the awkwardness in simple communication. A quiet moment passes between them as they walk down the pavement, both thinking on each other, and what they want. And then,

“Ah! Snow!” Victoria gasps, pointing at the sky.

Heavy cloud cover is turned orange from reflected light, but the flurry of flakes descending is most definitely white.

“Wowsers,” whispers Max, at the sight of the feathery dots, and Victoria bursts into laughter.

“You did not just-!” Her laughter is clear and barking in the night.

“Shut up! I'm allowed to feel like a kid in situations like this, okay?”

“Fine, I will take on the burden of maintaining some semblance dignity in-”

Victoria is cut off by the howling of sirens, fire trucks screaming past them at speed, first one, then another, then a third. In the distance, more can be heard. The blonde checks her phone, flicking through notifications, until,

“Hell. A four alarm right downtown.”

“Damn. I hope no one gets hurt.”

“Quite. But that's going to be a huge fire, there are so many old buildings there...”

“Yeah...”

Another silence now, darker.

“Anyways! Happier, more awkward things: I am a frigid old bitch, set in my ways. I haven't considered a long-term relationship in many, many years, but I don't hate the thought of one with you. That's not to say I _want_ one, so if you don't, that works for me as well. But,”

She turns, looking up at Max earnestly, nervously, “I wouldn't say no to trying for the long haul.”

Max flashes her a weak smile. “That's sweet, coming from a frigid old bitch.”

A smack of her arm, and the pair continue on home while the gears whirr almost audibly in Max’s mind as she tries to formulate a reply. Finally,

“I really appreciate the space you've given me, Tori, and the consideration. I've been trying to avoid thinking about this, because it's just so much easier to just... be. And then run when you're not, anymore.”

A deep breath. “But I came to Portland to get away from that, to try and sort my life into some kind of stability. If you're an old and frigid, I'm old and...”

She looks down at her hands, and a for a moment sees dust and caked blood on smooth, nail bitten fingers, rather than spots of snow on veined, older hands.

“...careworn. I could do with somewhere to rest my head, for a longer while. Somewhere where my feet can be still a bit longer.”

Victoria regards her, head cocked. “How long is longer?”

A sad smile. “I don't know. I'm terrible at this, at commitment and honestly, I'm almost _scared_ -”

“Hush now. Nothing you've said conflicts with anything I have. Let's take it from there, bit by bit. We can re-evaluate when you get itchy feet. Or when one of us feels something more serious is warranted.”

“Heh. Okay.” Max brushes a kiss to Victoria's cheek. “Hey. Know what?”

“Hmm?” Victoria asks, carefully stepping over a puddle as they round a corner.

“I think I love you.”

Now Victoria pulls up short, snapping her head around in a panicked arc, eyes widening and filling. “Wha-”

“Just a thought,” murmurs Max, jamming a hand into her jeans and not looking at the smaller woman.

“I... that. Oh hell Max, come here.” Small hands shoot up and grab Max's blushing face and pulling it in for a heated kiss. In soft-falling snow, Max melts into Victoria, gathering her up in her arms until she's nearly lifting her. The still night air lets snowflakes settle on the entwined pair as breath, lips and life say what words cannot. Victoria breaks the kiss with a nip on Max's lower lip.

“I have no idea what love is, please see 'frigid bitch,' but if there's anyone I'll love in this life, it will be you.”

Max swallows, hard, the lump in her throat constricting. She chokes happily, coughs through a smile and wipes away tears. And she stares down at the wonderful woman before her and slowly becomes aware that the heat between them is more than just chemical, emotional.

A prickling sensation plays across her shoulders as she turns, takes in the apartments smoking, burning across from them. A familiar weight settles in at the sight of an old woman, yelling in Spanish that her grandchild is still in there, being restrained. An old black man breaking free and rushing up the stairs. The certainty of death hangs over the building, its miasma filling Max's senses. Here is the familiar scene, the challenge that life poses a traveller such as she.

And so, mechanically, she reaches into a pocket, pulls out her phone. Snaps a photo. Sheds her jacket. Turns to Victoria and-

* * *

“Oh no, another one?” Victoria asks, “What kind of nigh- Max?”

She thinks she saw Max take a photo of the building and take off her jacket, but when she turns to ask her what the hell she thinks she's doing, Max is coughing, handing her the phone, hair in disarray, soot smudged across a cheek, and clothing ruined.

“God, Max, are you okay? Did something hit y-”

“I'll be alright, Tori. I just need you to hold on to this for me, okay?”

“Wha-”

“And don’t worry, I’ll be okay.”

And then she's off, long legs eating up the distance between their side of the road and the other. She whips her jacket off to drag it through a roadside puddle, not pausing for an instant, and bolting up the stairs. Victoria's heart is in her throat as she watches the flames rise higher.

“MAX!”

* * *

Fire extinguisher on the right. Grab it. Two doors up, couple trying to get more belongings into a suitcase. Kick the door in.

Snarl into shocked faces, “The building is about to come down, get the fuck out of here!”

Staircase, head up, blasting with fire extinguisher to buy time for the return trip. Pause, wait for ceiling boards to drop, flaming. Blast with fire extinguisher. Discard, grab new one from this floor. Looter around the corner, grab him by the lapels,

“Two thousand dollars of loot worth your life?”

Hurl him aside, continue to down the hall. Four more doors, break fire glass with arm, carefully retrieve fire axe – don't get fucking cut again, the slash on the right forearm screams. Two doors back, take axe to door, crunch through the wood around the deadbolt after five blows, body check the thing open. Get towel, soak it full of water. Get to bedroom, shake old woman awake, hand her glasses and hearing aid, calm her enough to take the towel. Cover her mouth, hold breath, rush her into the hallway through sudden gout of black smoke.

Sprint back into apartment, jam head out window, gasp for air, give searing lungs a break. Hack. Cough. Turn around, soak another towel, toss it around head like a hijab and hose down pants with shower head. Bolt up another flight, blast back flames with fire extinguisher, advancing on next fire extinguisher. Hose down path out. Buy that time. One more door to kick in. One, two three kicks, still not through.

Fatigue is setting in, weakness. Hard to breath, far too much smoke. Should have caught on to that danger sooner, on an earlier run. Ignore it. Breathe shallow, conserve energy. Ignore the number of other times, ignore the possibility of permanent failure.

_Silly Max. You can't always win. Somebody always dies._

_The many for the one._

Hurl body against the door, crash through. Make it to children's room, scream

“Close your eyes!”

And hose everything down. Toss fire extinguisher through jammed window, shove remaining glass through with towel, lay towel flat. Get boy to carry his little sister through the window on to the fire escape.

“Go quickly, but carefully, ok? When you get to the bottom, kick the stick next to the ladder and scream for help.”

Push him through the window.

Only two more known lives.

Soak jacket in the shower. Back into the hall, find the open door. Cover face with collar of sweater, duck into plumes of smoke. Nearly stumble over the old man, prone, baby underneath him. Swear, grab baby and wrap in jacket. Haul old man to his feet, tell him to shut up and save his breath. Three flights of stairs, only three flights of stairs.

Shuffle-drag old man down one floor, halfway through the hall of another. Getting heavier, can't hold himself up. Make it to the stairs and his legs give out. All tumble down the flight. Protect baby, smack head off bannister, once, twice and then the wall, arrest old man's tumble with leg, twinge of screaming pain from it.

Ignore it. Ignore the spinning world, the sweet beckoning of sleep. Sleep is the enemy. Sleep kills the little ones, all lined up under olive blankets, dusted with the- They are counting on you, believe in you! Shake it off!

Eyes like two flints of sapphire come up, glare at a treasonous leg, size up working limbs. A human rises, pain-fueled and certain of her place, blinking garnet teardrops away. A short, defiant snort scatters blood all down her front.

Grab the back of the old man’s shirt and sweater, drag him down the rest of the way. Can't breathe.

Doesn't matter.

Last floor. Doors ahead. Fire's gotten stronger, flames covering entry way. Next run gotta risk leaving the fire extinguisher, move faster, breathe-

_There won't be a next run._

_There's_ always _another run._

 _Not if you're dead_.

_The one for the many._

Tap those reserves. You ran barefoot over the shards of Nazca. Brace for the pain.

Rush through the flames.

* * *

She bursts through a wall of flame, dragging a smoldering, flamed-licked body and holding something in one arm. People mob her, beating out the flames on the old man, re-uniting the baby with the grandmother. Steam and smoke rise off her and she looks around, unseeing through burst vessel and tears of blood. Stumbles forward once, twice, regains her balance, pushing people off, gasping a name. She manages another step and another, then collapses beside the ambulance pulling up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >   
>  _...cooked, cleaned, cared for the children and scouted with the men. She could climb and run with the best of us and her photos brought tears to our eyes, reminding us that it was alright, even necessary to let out the agony of the rape out our homeland. If another foreign soul strode the ruins of Ukrayina with as much reverence as she, I do not know of them._
>> 
>> _But she did not fight. She ran from them, gathered the sick, elderly and children and hid them away with cunning like a fox’s. We found them sodden in sewers, clinging to rafters high about and dusted with grey chalk and dirt in front of our very eyes. But she would not fight. She would walk two days without break to fetch clean water, carry three children up forty flights of stairs, but she would not fight. I watched her dart, exhausted, into a field of munitions, grab four survivors and bring them back without exploding a single bomb, her face like the grave when she returned. But she would not fight._
>> 
>> _Until we lost a whole arm of the Wide March. She was there, teaching a group how to filter clean water and make rations last longer, when the Russians attacked. When the dust settled it was only her and a long, thin train of some dozen that made it out of the hell called Melitopol. Captain Galazun insisted that she learn how to carry a weapon after that, and to everyone’s surprise she agreed._
>> 
>> _What followed was the strangest training I have ever seen. From the beginning it was clear she simply couldn’t aim, couldn’t control the recoil of the gun. But the next day, she improved. The day after, more so, even as the circles under her eyes grew deeper and her body grew thinner. A month of this and the captain said he would not teach her any more, that she was deadly enough on her own._
>> 
>> _To the chaplain he said we needed an angel of mercy more than another angel of death._
>> 
>> _I will say no more, because her story is her own, much that we owe her._
>> 
>> \- Col. Alla Sirko, 501st Special Separate Battalion,Memoirs of Dust and Ruin  
> 


	9. A curtain drawn; a prayer; a confession

A grey sky, muddled with greyer clouds. 

A grey road, dust rising in a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand puffs of stony tread.

A hundred thousand or more grey human beings, plodding down a road. They move past her, unseeing, their senses dulled from marching hours, sometimes days without respite. Their clothes are washed out, speckled with the remains of food, waste and demolition, their shoes worse.

 _Oh,_ Max thinks, despondently. _Here, again._

“Yeah, ever wonder why you keep coming back here?”

The voice is scratchy and alien, but strangely familiar. Familiar in the way one’s own voice is, heard outside their head. Which makes sense, all things considered.

“Ever wonder why you’re always eighteen, no matter how old I get?” Max snaps back at her doppleganger.

“Ooh, not having any of my shit today, are you? Still coming down off that self-righteous high? Well fuck you, you and I both know why I look like this.”

The spectre of Max’s past jams her hands in her hoodie and stalks towards her. Leering up from her old (or young, really, depending how you want to look at it) height, she glares daggers at the middle-aged woman.

“You’ve still got the same old fear, the same old insecurities, the same-”

“Huh, I swore last time it was because I was being punished for my ‘sins,’ or some bullshit like that.”

The thing in front of Max blinks, surprised. Uncertain. A cruel mask slides into place soon enough. Max has enough nightmares of what that look means, of the nightmares she will soon face, locked in this purgatory of time. So she twists the knife one last time, trying for one last laugh over her demons.

“You all have really gotta figure out if you’re pretending to be real, or pretending to be figments of my imagination. Really knocks holes in your mental torture routine.”

The mask cracks into black, hateful rage, eyes already sunken turning black with death and a blistered mouth opens in a scream of ear-shattering volume. The crowd around them lift their heads in a similar scream, rising in pitch until it is indistinguishable from the artillery that begins to rain upon them. 

Once upon a time, Max would have plugged her ears. Now she knows to save her effort, numb herself quicker. 

It’s going to be a long, painful road.

* * *

Victoria scrolls through the plans and proposals in her lap, stylus gripped tight so as to not tap irritatingly against the side of the tablet. Her focus is laser sharp, dissecting costs and designs, flicking from one spreadsheet to another in a tightly-controlled bit of mental legerdemain. This is what is happening now, this is what you are doing. She’s good at it. She’s had years of experience at shutting out the outside world.

She’s never had to do it in a hospital room across from the woman she’d come very close to declaring love for. To say that it’s putting a strain on her is something of an understatement. Her eyes have been threatening to water, her mind threatening to stray. Only cold, iron resolve reminds her that she’s already gone through the hysterics and that any more would only constitute the worst kind of self-gratification. Better to get all this out of the way for if- when Max wakes up. 

Her phone vibrates again and she checks it one-handed. Another message from Ally, another crisis resolved. It’s too late for a bonus adjustment, but the girl’s getting a raise in the next year. Her thumb darts across the tiny screen, hits send and promptly skitters off the side when Max suddenly jolts upright, biting down on a scream.

Victoria nearly leaps out of her chair in shock and the tablet clatters to the floor. Max’s eyes snap to it, even as her hands and feet propel her back into the metal rods of the bed’s headboard. Her eyes snap up to Victoria, unrecognizing and for a moment Victoria is seized with terror.

 _Major cranial bleeding, no idea what the cause or consequences are, the doctors said_.

Then the lights come on in her eyes along with relief and Max looks like she’s nearly ready to cry as she deflates in relaxation. That’s when Victoria rushes over, biting back words and blinking back tears as she casts her arms around the lanky woman.

“Oh thank God,” she manages.

“Hey, uh,” a cough and smacking lips, “wow, that’s a new and terrible taste in my mouth. Hey, Tori. Sorry if I made you worry.”

“You’re fucking right you made me worry! Here, let me get you something to drink,” Victoria says, grabbing a plastic cup off the side table and getting water from the bathroom. As Max sips at it, the blonde continues, “And you’re damned right you’re sorry, running off and scaring the hell out of me! What were you thinking?”

Max takes a long gulp of water and lies back, sighing, closing her eyes. _Dammit Victoria, you’re pushing her too hard._

“I was thinking that nearby fire trucks were dealing with another part of the city. That the old man wasn’t going to make it, and the kid neither.”

“ _You_ could have ‘not made it!’ You’re not a firefighter, that was incredibly dangerous.”

A quirked smile. “Less for me than for some.”

“You’re not invincible, Max. No matter how much you’ve travelled, or survived.”

Max takes a gulp of water and leans back against pillows and sheets jammed back against the headboard. 

“It’s not just survival. I’m sorry, I haven’t been too clear, or forthcoming about my past.” She reaches out and takes Victoria’s hand, dry, papery skin wrapping gently around her fingers. 

“This is what it’s like for me, Tori. Tragedy happens around me and I have to decide how to deal with it. Stay safe, stay away,” her eyes open in slow defiance of the rest her body still needs, “Or go and save six lives.”

“That is… you don’t-” she stops herself from saying _have to._ Max would. Max does. “It’s not your entire life.”

“True enough. There’s plenty of downtime. But still. Plenty to go wrong.”

“And you get called-” Victoria cuts herself off again. It’s not her place and that would have been rude.

“An adrenaline junkie? Basically. Despite the fact that I’d rather spend the evening wrapped up in blankets and sipping kahlua and cocoa.”

They are still, silent, for a spell. She tries to understand Max, and in an abstract way Victoria _does_. She can see the parts of Max’s character that demand she do this, she just doesn’t understand _why._ Max can see, Victoria can see that Max can see it. But even as the other woman squeezes her hand, she doesn’t expect the next question.

“How old do you think I am, Victoria?”

She blinks, surprised at the change in Max's demeanour, the sudden weariness in tone and face.

“Well, considering we graduated the same time, around thirty-nine.”

“Perfectly logical. And chronologically, that's probably right. But biologically… personally? Absolutely? Hell, I still can't really come up with a good word for it.” Max frowns and lapses into thought, to the point where Victoria has to prod her with a finger. The other woman gives her a small, apologetic smile.

“Right, sorry. Getting off-track. I haven't done this much.” An apologetic smile. “Anyways, biologically, I'm closer to forty-two. By my count, anyways.”

A frown. “That's… what, do you not know your date of birth? Were you adopted? I don't see what this has to do with-”

“No, nothing like that, Tori. I mean in the space of time that you aged from eighteen to thirty-nine, I aged to forty-two.”

An unsettling understanding begins to form around Victoria's thought processes. The heroism, the accusations of being an adrenaline junky… “Oh Max, whatever you have, there's probably genetic therapies for it now and-”

Again, an interruption. “No, Tori. It's not genetic. I'm perfectly healthy… when I'm not doing this to myself.”

Max gestures at her, well, everything wryly. The cute smirk is no adorable quirk right now, as Victoria is getting short of temper. “Then what-”

A memory of derisive laughter, terrible vulnerability and then Max is speaking, suddenly cold and distant, a seeming few more inches away. Victoria flinches from the change. “In a dozen other timelines, all of this takes too long or I say the wrong thing and you bolt out that door, upsetting Doctor Willis, who then is too careful around me, meaning I can't steal my brain scans from the flash drive in his pocket. So for the love of God, Tori, can you please just hold on for a second?”

Victoria is now well and truly confused, a little scared and wondering if that cranial hemorrhaging has damaged Max. Gently she begins to lay a hand on Max's, begins to say something patronizing when she realizes, _Doctor Willis has been attending Max… while she's been in a coma._ Her hand comes away.

“Yeah, the slow discomfort of realizing things aren't quite right. Well, sorry, Tori, it's going to get worse. You wanted this explanation and unfortunately, I trust you enough to give it:

I can turn back time.”

It's a long moment before Victoria manages a word. “What?”

“I can reverse time, relive things, change events. Get second, third, fourth chances at things.”

 _I should probably talk to Doctor Willis about this._ Vicoria thinks, beginning to fear for Max's brain. _There should be a call button somewhere..._

“On another run of this event, when you're slightly more credulous, you ask me to prove it and I pull all my usual tricks, but it takes so long. So sorry, but I need you to believe me and I need those scans. And remember, _please_ don't run.”

The skin at the back of Victoria's neck prickles, her short hairs beginning to rise. Her blood feels like lightning in her veins and she can almost remember bolting out the door, running into the older man and brushing straight past him.

“You nearly killed yourself two days after Mirabelle turned one. Hot bath, lots of wine, sharp knife through your veins.”

The bottom drops out of Victoria's world and her breath stops dead in her lungs. Her mind is blank, she has forgotten how to breathe and the electricity in her veins is rising, burning, turning thoughts to panic and setting her heart into overdrive.

“You didn't, throwing the knife away and knocking the wine into the tub, ruining your bath. You started to cry, hating yourself for your weakness. And you never told anyone until me, in another timeline when you were trying to get me to tell you why I do this.”

Max's grip tightens around hers, grounding her, draining the shock from her pale arms, her even paler face.

“Sorry. And thanks for not running.”

Victoria just stares, uncomprehending. A time passes, Max's thumb brushing her knuckles softly. Slowly Victoria regains her capacity for speech, just in time to be interrupted by knocking at the door. A dark, bald head pokes in.

“Ah, Maxine! Finally awake I see.” Doctor Willis let's himself in. “I'm Doctor Willis, the nosey old man who's been telling Victoria that you're going to be fine.”

“Heh, well, I appreciate that, Doctor Willis. Sorry if she's been stressing. And please, it's Max.”

“Alright Max, I just want to do a quick check of your lungs. You got a _lot_ of smoke in there with your heroism, young lady.”

He manages to shoo Victoria off her perch by Max's side, moving over to go through the motions of checking Max's breathing.

“We managed to purge your lungs pretty well, but it never hurts to be careful, particularly with you in that state. The cranial bleeding seems to be unrelated though, so I'd like to have a few more scans done.”

“Oh, a few more? Some have been done?”

“Just this morning. I was about to go over them in my office,” he says, patting his pants pocket. “I can let you know my preliminary findings ASAP.”

“Sure. I've had it forever though, and other doctors have said it's just something I'm going to have to live with.”

“Oh? That's a remarkably unprofessional diagnosis, in my opinion. Do you mind if I pull your records?”

“Go right ahead, Doctor,” Max says with a small smile, eyes fixed on his pant leg. Victoria shifts uneasily, feeling like an invader suddenly, like a spy with too much information for her own good. Then Max lies back with a whoof.

“But I'd really like to get out of here soon, Doc, I'm not really great with hospitals.”

“Well, we'll have to see about that, pending my findings.”

“'Kay,” Max manages with a smile, sniffling a little.

“Well, I'll leave you two alone then,” the old man smiles and leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him. Victoria looks between the door and Max, who has a finger pressed to her nose.

“Ah, could I get a tissue, please?”

Mutely, Victoria pulls one from the box by the visitor's side table and walks it over to Max, who quickly replaces her finger with the tissue, wiping the blood from her digit on the back of it. Victoria sucks in a breath.

“Sorry, sorry, I just overdid it.”

“Overdid what, Max? You're bleeding from your _brain_.”

“Time travel.”

Victoria falls silent as Max takes a hold of her hand again. “I know it's hard to believe, Tori, but it's true.”

“...what about the USB key you wanted?”

Max smiles and reaches under the covers. “And for my next trick… ta-da.”

Victoria looks blankly at the little white key. She hadn't seen Max take it from the doctor's pants pocket. She hadn't seen Max stash it under the sheets. She hadn't seen Max even _move her arms_ while Doctor Willis was in here.

“What the fuck.”

“I can take small things with me, so long as they're on my person. I wrestled the key from him, dropped it on my lap and turned back time.”

The image of Max with her arm jammed into the doctor's pants pocket is too much and Victoria snaps. Giggles stream out of her, building until she is laughing, crying, sobbing with disbelief and shock, curled up on Max's lap. Max's arms wrap around her.

“Yeah. That's… that was pretty much how I felt all the time.”

Victoria looks up, sees Max with tissue jammed up her nose and breaks into giggles again.

“I'm… I'm sorry, this is just so… it's too much. I don't- I don't know how to deal with it.”

“Tell me about it. But, um, I'm not going anywhere, so...”

“I just… I saw you run in there and I thought you were insane. And then you stumble out with those two and I think you're fine and that I didn't lose you and then you keel over and the ride to the hospital and, and-”

Victoria is about to break down again and Max does absolutely the right thing and just wraps her arms tighter around her.

“I know. I'm sorry. But I had- have to. Great responsibility, and all that.”

“Nerd.”

“Guilty.”

They stay like that for a while, until Victoria slips her smaller body up onto the bed, nestling into the crook of Max’s arm.

“For the record, I’m still not sure I believe you. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Max brushes a kiss to the top of her head. “Glad to hear it.

But at some point I’ve gotta get up to pee.”

* * *

“So.,” a muffled voice murmurs, pressed close to a shoulder, “Turning back time makes you bleed from your nose, er, brain? Not sure if I approve.”

“No, only when I over do it. I do it pretty regularly. It’s just that over-use has a pretty usual physiological impact on me.”

“Somehow I don’t think bleeding from you brain is a physiologically usual in any circumstances.”

“Sure. But you can rupture blood vessels lifting and shit. Why not turning back time.”

“Hmm, and your brain is doing the lifting?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I’ve been warned- that is, it’s probably best if people don’t get detailed views on my noggin.”

“Been warned? By who? Why shouldn’t people have a better idea-”

“Tori. We torture people for being associated with a religion. If someone with actual power ran afoul of the government, how do you think that would go down? What do you think the government would do with it?”

Victoria is silent for a period, mulling it over. Under linen covers, she sidles closer to Max, holding her tight. “But even with that threat, you still do... what you do.”

“Sure,” Max responds, “Better to have a positive impact than none at all. And before you say anything, I hardly ever overwork myself. Hell, I go years between heavy use. It’s just like any other muscle.”

“Oh? How much use have you gotten out of it since you’ve come here? No, no wait- let me guess,” Victoria says, propping herself up suddenly, looming over Max’s lunguidly splayed, satisfied form. “Mmm... three times.”

The taller woman blinks. “That is... huh. Pretty close.”

“The time with the umbrella and the car. Maybe in the washroom at the gallery? The fire in the house, obviously.”

Victoria shifts back as Max’s entire demeanour changes. Her foucs, once communicated through drifting touches on Victoria’s skin, shifts aggressively to her gaze. The strength of it spears Victoria suddenly, dragging the breath from her lungs. Her blood rushes, sings with the danger represented by this woman so close to her heart. Heart pounding, she asks,

“What? Hit the nail too close, Caulfield?”

“Way too close,” Max confirms, too serious. “How... what told you...?”

Victoria shrugs, a slight movement amplified beneath covers and proximous limbs. “I felt... something like deja vu. Like I got soaked, like you pissed me off but didn’t. Things that should have happened, but didn’t.”

Max’s eyes are huge, watery things, and the longer Victoria looks into them the longer she risks being swallowed whole. That is normal. But now, it looks as if Max’s entire being is flowing over, threatening to burst and here Victoria is in the center, ground zero.

“Max?”

“It’s... it’s nothing, Tori.”

“...this is the first time anyone’s noticed, isn’t it?”

There is no answer. Just a quiet Max, now buried into the crook of Victoria’s neck, sobbing silently, clutching the the smaller woman close, nails scoring faint lines into a bare back from need, hope, relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took a while. New job is kicking my ass. I'm slowly kicking it back. Stay tuned, and trust me, I _do_ finish things. Eventually.


	10. La Toile T'araignée Dans la Rose

Photos litter a cleared space in Max’s apartment, arranged in an arc around the two women sat in an oversized bean bag chair. The pictures start in a few sparse, neat stacks close to the pair, while further out they resemble stacks less and piles more. More and more, pictures are tossed out at the piles, cast out like cards from a dealer and Victoria gets more and more frustrated.

“What about this one?” Max asks, presenting Victoria with a shot of Portland’s older buildings, marred by a car speeding past. There is a an arresting quality to the blur that Max likes, but she suspects Victoria will be tossing it. 

Victoria takes one glance at it and begins to screw up her face in distaste at the obvious flaw, but stops. Takes a closer look. Takes the picture from Max. She spends a long moment of introspection staring at it, her eyes flickering every so often to the heap of photos. The moment turns into minutes and while Max is perfectly willing to give her time, the behaviour is… abnormal for today. 

A gentle elbow. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Please, you don’t have enough.”

“You’d be surprised. The tip jar at the cafe alone…”

That finally cracks Victoria’s stony facade, just a little, enough to allow the quirking of lips, the appearance of faint lines. 

“I don’t know how to put this properly… or politely.”

“Well, that hasn’t ever once been a problem in your life to date,” Max comments, a smile of her own stealing the sting of the sarcasm.

“Yes, but that was before I found someone I cared about driving away with my bullshit.”

Max gives a hard swallow and tries to find her voice. Of all the stuff Tori says, it is always the most self-deprecating things that make Max feel loved. 

“Well, trust me enough that I can stand a little bullshit, since I care too much to be driven away by it.”

An arm goes around Victoria and she’s more than happy to snuggle into the crook of warmth offered. A practiced toss sees the photo landed into one of the nearer piles and Victoria lets out a great huge sigh.

“I kind of really, really hate how much better of an eye than me you have. Like, really. If you were one of my competitor’s I’d have hired you, ruined you or bought you a retirement already.”

Max blinks.

“Um, thanks…?”

“No, you don’t get it. I don’t mean hate, like, ‘oh i hate this latte’ I mean hate as in this visceral, blackly curling thing that crawls around my heart chokingly and-”

Victoria pauses in the middle of miming crushing something slowly between her hands, fingers crooked into claws. She stops because she can feel the lean muscles of Max’s slim frame tense and tighten even under the thick woolen sweater. 

“Yeah. So I hate your skill, probably because I envy it and that’s a go-to human response I’ve never bothered to-”

“Tori.”

“-overcome because it’s actually served me well as a focusing device to overcome my own deficiencies as-”

“Victoria.”

“-an artist and business owner but not a pers-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Max mutters and tilts Victoria’s face towards her for kiss. It’s an effective strategy, immediately shutting the other woman up, widening her eyes, and drawing a surprised, needy moan from a slim throat. Manicured nails dig into her sweater as Victoria pushes up at her, aggressively deepening the joining. It takes a lot of willpower, but Max pushes her away.

While Victoria licks her lips, eyes darting from Max’s thin mouth to her eyes to her neck, Max leans backs, letting her fingers trace through Tori’s hair. 

“Ya done?” She asks, impishly. Victoria manages a nod, settling back in the bean bag, if somewhat reluctantly.

“So you know your gallery with the pottery and sculpture feature? You had a hand in arranging that, right? Mmm. And how many paintings do you sell a year? No, don’t actually answer me, you silly thing. One last thing - which of us owns a multi-franchise business? Riiight.”

Max’s eyebrows arch with the last word and something like contrition crosses Victoria’s face. 

“I mean, I’d prefer it if you didn’t hate _any_ part of me, but failing that, maybe focus on the many, many things you do better than anyone rather than the one thing I do better than you _because I spent my entire life doing it_.”

Victoria looks away, suddenly guilt-stricken. She is losing a fight to hold back tears and Max can see it.

“Oh Tori…” tracing fingers become an insistent press that pulls the smaller woman’s head to her shoulder. “Stop being so hard on yourself. I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting into.”

“I’m-” a pause that is almost a hiccup, but of course Victoria couldn’t be seen to show that sort of weakness. “Sorry. I didn’t even take that into account. Christ, I’m such a selfish bitch.”

“Yeah, but you’re trying, and I appreciate that.”

There are words that clog Victoria’s throat, heartfelt ones that express the depth of her feeling for Max. But they’re thick, terrifying things, _heartfelt_ things and after a life of self-reliance she shies from what they imply. 

“Yeah, well. Sorry and thanks. And, uh, oh look!” Victoria suddenly exclaims. “We still have all these pictures to go through! We’d probably better get through them!”

“Heh. Sure. So long as you stop ragging on yourself.”

“I _suppose._ I almost wish I didn’t own the gallery. That way I’d actually have to live up to someone else’s standards. This feels like cheating, I can put anything in.”

“You could try the other galleries in town?”

“I’d rather drink bleach.”

A snort of laughter, and they return to sorting the piles. Despite many attempts by Max to get Victoria to consider less perfect or rougher work, the pile of “acceptable” photographs is pretty small. Victoria looks at the single folder left to go through in despair. She slumps into Max, and lets her play with her hair some.

“God, this is never going to be enough. I could barely do a wall, sparsely.”

“Well, maybe work the minimalist theme?”

Victoria shakes her head. “I’ve only one gallery that would really work for that, atmospheric, and it’s booked until _July_. The intimate one, down by River.”

Max nods, vaguely remember the place. But an idea has begun to form in her head, though she’s not sure Tori will go for it.

“You know, you could always… start small?”

“Even my smallest gallery would need probably like twice as much as I have here. And it’s- huh.”

She straightens under Max’s arm, looking at the pile of photos. 

“That’s not a bad idea actually. I’d have to push the date back, but there’s another showing that we had some trouble paring down to size. If I move it to a larger… it’s a favour for an old prof so he’d probably be excited to see me put new material out…”

Victoria leaves the comforting confines of Max’s arm and begins to dial.

“Victoria, it’s almost ten, no one’s going to be in your office.”

“I know, I’m calling Ally.”

“Victoria… it’s _almost ten_. Give her a rest. If you’re pushing the date back already. Twelve more hours on your idea isn’t going to-”

“Too late, she’s picking- Yes, Ally? Good. I’m calling to EEP-”

Max stands over Victoria, holding the phone out of reach. 

“Hey Ally, sorry about this. It’s Max. Yes, that Max. You can expect some new instructions in the morning. Say good night to your boss!”

And with that Max hangs up and pries the back off the phone off, flipping the battery tab out into her hand. Fending Tori’s grumbling, grabby hands, she slips the block into her back pocket. The blonde stares at her, outraged.

“You’re going to make me go after that, aren’t you.”  
“I am _absolutely_ going to make you go after that.”

* * *

“Well that could have gone worse.”

“You’re saying that like we didn’t just get off almost scot-free.”

“I suppose. That wench could have tried to talk to me less and-’

“You just _actually_ called someone a wench. Wowsers.”

“-and they could have _tried_ to provide a decent wine. I know Jacob remembers what I-”

“It was a barbeque. You have beer with a barbeque, not goddamn wine.”

“-taught him. Though I suppose it was sufficiently basic to ensure we could properly introduce Maribelle to the stuff.”

“Ok, question about that. Were you just trying to troll Jacob’s fiancee with that or were you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Heh, fine. Be like that. But if you were serious, I’m surprised you backed down.”

“Backed down? Hardly. She had some when we were doing the dishes.”

“Ha! Oh boy, and I missed it.” 

“You were playing the vital role of celebrity distraction.”

“And for once it was a pleasant experience.”

“As much as I’ll call her names, I imagine she can’t be as bad as paparazzi.”

“Not even close. She was a perfect hostess. Jacob was the more awkward. I… don’t think he’s quite managing to parse the fact that you’re with a woman now.”

“Oh he’ll be fine. He likes you, at least.”

“Oh? The awkwardness…”

“Please, Jacob is like that around anyone new. God knows how he managed to snag a model. No, he broke out some of that god awful black stuff for you.”

“Oh, the Narwhal? I’m not really a fan of stouts, but that was an excellent dessert.”

“I will stick with my Gewurtztraminer, thanks.”

“Give any of that to ‘Belle?”

“ _Fuck,_ no. I’m not wasting ninety dollar wine on someone who’s just had her first taste.”

“And yet, you shared it with wassername.”

“Ehn, call it a peace offering.”

“Given the shade you were throwing her the entire evening, I’m not sure that’s enough.”

“Oh trust me. Just like I just told you Jacob is alright with you, I guarantee you he’s just said the same of me.”

“Heh, alright. You two really were close then?”

“Sure. Were it not for ‘family’ and having Maribelle, I imagine we could have made a good run of it.”

Moments of silence, while they make their way to the LRT stop. The idyllic sprawl of concrete, ceramic and solar panelling glows softly in the ancient orange night lighting. Underfoot they crush grass and weeds allowed to push through crumbling, gravelled sidewalks, their gait that of those pleasantly drunk. 

“That… that wasn’t rude or offensive was it? Talking about how much I like Jacob?”

“Hmm? No, sorry, I didn’t mean to give that impression. Was thinking about something completely different.”

“Nickle for your thoughts?”

“I don’t rate a dime?”

“I’d have gone for a penny, but they don’t make those any more.”

“Bitch.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Two grins, one reserved by tight muscles and discipline, the other broad and open. And slowly fading into uncertainty.

“You don’t regret having Maribelle then?”

“Now? No. Then? God yes. Like, wow. Biggest crisis of my life. Staring at 18 years of maternal responsibility and entrapment and finding myself utterly wanting. I’m lucky things have worked out how they have.”

“You’re a great mom.”

“And you’re a great not-mom.”

It’s the drink that makes Max slow to react, slow to raise the barrier of the genuine smile at ‘Belle’s regard. But Tori sees what’s behind it, nonetheless. But she holds her tongue, just looking at Max with wide open, unveiled eyes trying to think supportive thoughts at her. Max notices, and it has the intended effect.

“I thought about having a kid, once, you know?”

Whatever Victoria thought Max was hiding, that was _not_ it.

“Heh, yeah, that’s about the reaction I was expecting.”

“What? I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s cool. I gave up on it years ago.”

A quiet in which Victoria sidles up close to Max in support. 

“I… I’ve never been against having kids. And once I got really well off, I figured, ‘Well, I’m never getting a dick in me, and I haven’t found a soul-mate yet, so maybe I’ll just raise a kid myself!’”

Victoria blinks. 

“That is… very you. And incredibly brave.”

“And dumb. But I did my research! To offset that dumb. I wanted to give the kid the best chance she could have, and my parents would definitely have helped.”

“But…?”

Max’s eyes go far away, take on that vaguely pained, determined air that just screams “repression” to Victoria. She mutters something that the shorter woman puzzles over, but continues.

“Hell, Tori, you’ve seen my life. Can I bring someone into that? Can I adopt a kid into that kind of household? Even if I managed a full-time nanny, could I rest easy if one day my child came home to no mother?”

Victoria has no answer to that and begins to crawl inside her own mind. She gave up her child for entirely selfish reasons and was lucky enough that she got a second chance with her. But here’s Max, stalwart, too-good Max, who never even gave herself the option. She looked to her own future and said denied her own desires.

“You could… just stop?”

A sad smile. “Really? Do you think I could?”

Looking up at Max, all careworn and lightly crinkled eyes, Victoria suddenly feels much, much smaller. It’s like she’s taking refuge under the boughs of some rough oak, a thing that’s stood tall long after its allotted time, unbending and somehow unbroken. Whatever quality of Max’s that makes her feel like that probably disallows Max from standing idly by when things go to hell. The oak does not bend because it does not want to. The oak does not bend because it cannot help it.

“But hey, I got to meet Maribelle. Maybe if we keep this up, I’ll feel like a real mom, and not just a not-mom!”

“You and Maribelle… I swear to god, neither of you should be allowed to name anything.”

“What? My naming conventions are fine!”

“Yes, like plain white rice is ‘fine.’ Your collections are love letters to Hemingway’s vocabulary.”

“Hemingway had a fine vocabulary.”

“His… I don’t know, sentence construction then! God, not an ounce of drama in you and Maribelle with enough for four.”

“Oh, shut up.”

A smirk, followed by a purring, “Make me.”

“Oh ho, don't mind if I do.”

Max hand finds a loop of her belt and hauls Victoria around at a pace just under roughly. The smaller woman bumps into the taller, setting her back on her heels a touch. So maybe she'd added to her momentum, a little, who was really counting. A smile Max would call cat-like spreads slowly across her face as she slips hands inside Max's jacket, arms coming up to feel the broad expanse of bone and muscle that makes up her girlfriend's shoulders.

 _Her girlfriend's._ The brief moment of head-spin that engenders is swept up in the heat and passion of Max claiming her mouth in the promised Shut Up Kiss. Her lips might be thin and chapped but they are skilled and her tongue hungry. It's not long before Victoria is making soft, lewd noises and Max is pushing her up against a lamppost, too chilly hands slipping from beltloop to under panties.

It banishes that lingering doubt, that haunting wonder at what Max meant by that muttered phrase,

“The terrible calculus of heroism.”

* * *

But the things you wonder at do not disappear when you stop looking at them.

The pyramids are still there when you turn your back, fish still swim through waters you have left behind and slavery still exists no matter how much you don’t think about it.

The oak still stands.

The hero must still do her math.

* * *

The day is windy and the ground is icy when they’re going to go pick Maribelle up from the bus station. She’s recently been insisting that she’s perfectly old enough to travel on her own, along with a whole list of other arguments that she never got a chance to use. Her dad was more than happy to have a few more hours to himself and his bride-to-be on the Friday and Victoria happened to agree with her. She thinks Max has other opinions, but she wisely keeps them to herself.

Victoria is taking advantage of the trek in the too-cold Portland fall, bundled securely against Max’s frame. Soon enough Maribelle will be excitedly trying to wedge herself between them. Not out of any ill-will, but physically, to be between her two Moms. The rate at which she and Max bonded was astonishing to all parties except Maribelle, she thinks. Max had expressed concern, but Victoria had no idea what to make of it.

One thing that stuck with her though, was Max’s worry that the girl might be lacking for friends in school. It was on the weekend’s agenda to suss that out. Well, Victoria’s weekend agenda. Max refused to have anything to do with anything that wasn’t a straight-up question posed to the girl. Victoria was currently allowing for that possibility, somewhere in the queue before “asking Jacob.” 

Max stiffens suddenly and Victoria halts her monologue about getting their works into the same gallery.

“Something wrong?”

“No, just… let’s cross here.”

A shiver passes down Victoria’s spine at the tone, and she casts her eyes at the crosswalk still a block away. Did Max watch some kind of… accident happen to them there? She bites her tongue, not sure how or even if she should broach the question. Maybe later tonight, after they were all snugged up in Max’s little apartment. They’d promised Maribelle a chance at burning real wood in a real fireplace.

In her introspection she barely notices Max’s increased gait, or that Max is holding her closer. Both women’s strides lengthen and they eat up the blocks between them and the bus station. Just as Victoria decides that maybe she shouldn’t ruin the end of the evening by bring up something so morbid, Max raises a hand and calls out,

“Hey, ‘Belle! Over here!”

Victoria follows her gaze and takes in her daughter, just now shouldering her way through the front door of the station. Maribelle hears the calls, sees them, and breaks into a grin. She lugs her duffel through the crowd, coming up and dumping it before them. The blue-haired girl jams her fists on her hips and says proudly,

“See? Told you it was fine!”

There’s the howling rumble of a sports car gunning it behind them, and even as they turn to look at the commotion, Victoria’s world shifts, like her brain has been yanked through her ear. She’s on the other side of the street while she’s still standing here. Maribelle is watching the bright yellow car while what looks like a ghost of her leaves the front door, shouldering the duffel and rushing to meet Victoria on the other side of the street.

She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out as the sports car slams into her daughter at knee-height, crunching through bone to slam her body off the hood and her head through the windshield, a red spiderweb blooming horribly across the glass, obscuring the face of the man just now looking up from his phone, the spiderweb growing and growing and filling her-

“Tori?”

Max jostles her and Victoria blinks, sees her daughter before her, fine, sees the yellow car speeding off. Then her hand fists in Max’s coat, her teeth clenching as she strangles her own scream dead in her throat.


End file.
